BV  4915  .B443  1911 
Begbie,  Harold,  1871-1929. 
Souls  in  action 


SOULS    IN    ACTION 


SOULS  IN  ACTION 


The  Crucible  of  the  New  Life 


EXPANDING  THE  NARRATIVE  OF 

TWICE-BORN  MEN 


V 


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By  y 

HAROLD    BEGBIE 

Author  of  "Twice-Born  Men:'  "The  Vi£il"  &c. 


*      MAY  30  19] 
II  SE»V 


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HODDER  &  STOUGHTON 

NEW  YORK 

GEORGE   H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1911 
By  George  H.  Doban  Company 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 
TO 

MRS.  HUGH  PRICE  HUGHES 

AND 

SISTER  MILDRED 

OF  THE  WEST  LONDON  MISSION 


Surely  there  are  in  every  man's  Life  certain  rubs, 
doublings,  and  wrenches,  which  pass  a  while  under  the 
effects  of  chance,  but  at  the  last  well  examined,  prove  the 
meer  hand  of  God. — Religio  Medici. 

Evidences  of  Christianity!  I  am  weary  of  the  word. 
Make  a  man  feel  the  want  of  it;  rouse  him,  if  you  can, 
to  the  self-knowledge  of  his  need  of  it;  and  you  may 
safely  trust  it  to  its  own  Evidence. — Aids  to  Reflection. 

It  was  to  this  Change  of  Nature,  of  Life  and  Spirit,  to 
this  certain,  immediate  Deliverance  from  the  Power  of 
Sin  .  .  .  that  Men  were  then  called  to,  as  true  Chris- 
tianity. And  the  Preachers  of  it  bore  Witness,  not  to 
a  Thing  that  they  had  heard,  but  to  a  Power  of  Salvation, 
a  Renewal  of  Nature,  a  Birth  of  Heaven,  a  Sanctification 
of  the  Spirit,  which  they  themselves  had  received. — The 
Way  to  Divine  Life. 

If  a  man  is  not  rising  upwards  to  be  an  angel,  depend 
upon  it,  he  is  sinking  downwards  to  be  a  devil.  He 
cannot  stop  at  the  beast.  The  most  savage  men  are  not 
beasts;  they  are  worse,  a  great  deal  worse. — Coleridge's 
Table  Talk. 

It  is  the  plague  of  manie,  that  they  are  not  plagued: 
even  this  is  their  punishment,  the  want  of  punish- 
ment; ...  an  insensible  Heart  is  the  Devil's  Anvil,  he 
fashioneth  all  sins  on  it,  and  the  blowes  are  not  felt. — 
The  Gallant's  Burden. 

They  have  drawn  on  forces  which  exist,  and  on  a  soul 
which  answers. — Human  Personality. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface        9 

Introduction n 

Seekers  and  Savers 36 

The  Flowing  Tide 67 

Two  Roads 89 

The  Vision  of  a  Lost  Soul    ....  95 

Betrayed I28 

Out  of  the  Depths 148 

The  Carriage  Lady 176 

A  Girl  and  Her  Lover 200 

Tale  of  a  Treaty  Port    .       .       .       .       .223 

The  Cleanest  Thing  in  the  House      .       .  247 

Sister  Agatha's  Way 269 

(1)  The  Bookseller 

(2)  Transfigured 

(3)  The  Little  Lion 

Notes 302 


PREFACE 

IN  two  chief  respects  the  narratives  com- 
posing this  book  differ  from  those  in  Twice- 
Born  Men.  They  are  instances  of  conver- 
sion, but  not  of  sudden,  violent,  and  passionate 
conversion.  Even  so  profound  a  thinker  and 
so  far-seeing  an  observer  as  Frederic  Myers 
appears  to  have  regarded  conversion  only  in  this 
manner,  whereas  the  most  interesting,  the  most 
striking,  and  the  most  conclusive  cases  of  the 
miracle  are  those  in  which  a  gradual  and  quite 
tranquil  change  of  heart  leads  to  the  new  birth. 
Professor  Granger,  in  The  Soal  of  a  Christian, 
tells  of  a  revivalist  preacher  who  condemned  a 
Scotch  congregation  for  not  responding  to  his 
appeal  for  sudden  change :  "  A  woman  rebuked 
him  by  saying  that  her  mother  had  been  praying 
in  the  hills  for  five  years  before  she  was  con- 
verted: how  was  she  to  be  converted  in  five 
minutes?"  There  could  be  no  narrower  view 
of  conversion  than  that  which  shuts  out  of  count 
and  regards  only  as  cases  of  natural  development, 
those  fundamental  changes  in  the  soul  which  are 
gradually  produced;  so  long  as  there  is  a  culmi- 
nating point,  a  place  at  which  the  spirit  com- 

9 


10  PREFACE 

pletely  turns  about  and  becomes  definitely  con- 
scious of  a  new  life,  however  quietly,  privately, 
and  dispassionately,  these  are  true  cases  of  the 
miracle. 

The  second  respect  in  which  this  book  differs 
from  Twice-Born  Men  is  in  the  character  of  the 
people  whose  stories  it  attempts  to  tell.  In 
Twice-Born  Men  the  testators  were  all  men,  and 
cTf  the  humblest  classes  in  the  community,  some 
of  them  the  very  lees  and  dregs  of  society.  In 
the  present  book  most  of  the  stories  concern 
women,  and  in  all  cases  the  strata  of  society 
is  above  the  depths. 


INTRODUCTION 

//  faut  que  la  vie  soit  bonne  aUn  qu'elle  soit  feconde. 


ONE  of  the  aphorisms  in  Coleridge's  rAids 
to  Reflection  is  entitled,  "  The  Charac- 
teristic Difference  between  the  Discipline 
of  the  Ancient  Philosophers  and  the  Dispensa- 
tion of  the  Gospel."  To  insist  upon  this  Differ- 
ence is  to  venture  a  rescue  of  Christianity,  both 
from  the  shadows  of  philosophy  and  from  the 
sensuous  insecurity  of  aesthetics,  which  seems 
at  this  time  more  than  ever  a  work  of  high 
urgency — a  work  to  which  all  men  may  set 
their  hands  who  believe  that  life  without  some 
form  of  definite  religion  is  like  to  be  a  chaos, 
and  without  the  true  religion  must  certainly  fall 
short  of  its  reach. 

This  book  attempts  such  a  work,  and  one  could 
not  better  express  its  purpose,  or  sound  the  note 
of  its  forerunning  essay,  than  by  setting  forth 
in  full,  on  the  very  threshold  of  its  pages,  the 
noble  and  compelling  aphorism  of  Coleridge  in 
which  that  characteristic  of  Christianity  which 

11 


12  INTRODUCTION 

differentiates   it   from   all  philosophies  and   all 
other  religions  is  most  powerfully  defined. 

The  Aphorism  is  as  follows: 

"By  undeceiving,  enlarging,  and  informing 
the  Intellect,  Philosophy  sought  to  purify,  and 
to  elevate  the  Moral  Character.  Of  course,  those 
alone  could  receive  the  latter  and  incomparably 
greater  benefit  who  by  natural  capacity  and 
favourable  contingencies  of  fortune  were  fit 
recipients  of  the  former.  How  small  the  number, 
we  scarcely  need  the  evidence  of  history  to 
assure  us.  Across  the  Night  of  Paganism, 
Philosophy  flitted  on,  like  itself,  the  lantern-fly 
of  the  tropics,  a  light  to  and  an  ornament,  but 
alas!  no  more  than  an  ornament,  of  the  sur- 
rounding darkness. 

"  Christianity  reversed  the  order.  By  means 
accessible  to  all,  by  inducements  operative  on  all, 
and  by  convictions,  the  grounds  and  materials 
of  which  all  men  might  find  in  themselves,  her 
first  step  was  to  cleanse  the  Heart.  But  the 
benefit  did  not  stop  here.  In  preventing  the 
rank  vapours  that  steam  up  from  the  corrupt 
Heart,  Christianity  restores  the  Intellect  like- 
wise to  its  natural  clearness.  By  relieving  the 
mind  from  the  distractions  and  importunities  of 
the  unruly  passions,  she  improves  the  quality 
of  the  Understanding:  while,  at  the  same  time, 
she  presents  for  its  contemplation  Objects  so 
great  and  so  bright  as  cannot  but  enlarge  the 


INTRODUCTION  13 

organ  by  which  they  are  contemplated.  The 
fears,  the  hopes,  the  remembrances,  the  anticipa- 
tions, the  inward  and  outward  experience,  the 
belief  and  the  Faith,  of  a  Christian,  form  of 
themselves  a  philosophy  and  a  sum  of  knowl- 
edge, which  a  life  spent  in  the  grove  of  Aca- 
demus,  or  the  'painted  porch/  could  not  have 
attained  or  collected.  The  result  is  contained 
in  the  fact  of  a  wide  and  still  widening  Christen- 
dom. 

"Yet  I  dare  not  say,  that  the  effects  have 
been  proportionate  to  the  divine  wisdom  of  the 
Scheme.  Too  soon  did  the  Doctors  of  the 
Church  forget  that  the  Heart,  the  Moral  Nature, 
was  the  beginning  and  the  end;  and  that  Truth, 
Knowledge,  and  Insight  were  comprehended  in 
its  expansion.  This  was  the  first  and  true  apos- 
tasy— when  in  Council  and  Synod  the  Divine 
Humanities  of  the  Gospel  gave  way  to  specula- 
tive Systems,  and  Religion  became  a  Science  of 
Shadows  under  the  name  of  Theology,  or  at 
best  a  bare  Skeleton  of  Truth,  without  life  or 
interest,  alike  inaccessible  and  unintelligible  to 
the  majority  of  Christians.  For  these,  there- 
fore, there  remained  only  rites  and  ceremonies 
and  spectacles,  shows  and  semblances.  Thus 
among  the  learned  the  substance  of  things  hoped 
for  (Heb.  xi.  i)  passed  off  into  Notions;  and 
for  the  unlearned  the  surfaces  of  things  became 
substance.     The  Christian  world  was  for  cen- 


14  INTRODUCTION 

turies  divided  into  the  Many,  that  did  not  think 
at  all,  and  the  Few  who  did  nothing  but  think — 
both  alike  unreflecting,  the  one  from  defect  of 
the  Act,  the  other  from  the  absence  of  an  Object/' 

II 

The  purpose  of  this  book  is  to  show  by  the 
testimony  of  Christened  souls  that  where  the 
Christian  religion  makes  it  her  first  step  to  cleanse 
the  heart,  results  follow  which  are  evidence  of 
her  divine  origin.  And  the  object  of  this  in- 
troduction is  to  insist  that  Christianity  must  be 
unwaveringly  and  authoritatively  declared  by  its 
representatives  to  be  a  miracle-working  religion, 
a  religion  able  to  cleanse  the  heart  and  convert 
the  soul  of  even  the  most  degraded  human  be- 
ing, or  its  inevitable  tendency  will  be  towards 
the  unprofitable  region  of  speculation.  There 
its  light,  which  has  for  so  long  lightened  the 
world,  will  surely  flicker  miserably  away,  for 
some  generations  at  least,  into  the  shadows  and 
dispensable  mysticism  of  an  inadequate  theology. 

The  supreme  danger  of  the  Christian  religion 
comes  not  from  outside,  but  from  within.  No 
attack  of  a  merely  unimaginative  materialism 
could  so  undermine  and  totter  this  heavenly 
edifice  as  the  inclination  of  those  inside  to  sponge 
away  from  its  interior  walls  the  ancient  testi- 
mony of  a  divine  origin.     Christianity  is  either 


INTRODUCTION  15 

the  first  essential  of  life  or  it  is  a  poor  philosophy. 
It  is  either  a  Revelation  or  a  Theory.  It  is  either 
the  Spirit  of  God  or  the  dream  of  men.  It  is 
either  superhuman,  or  a  mere  guess. 

To  make  Christianity,  as  is  the  tendency  in 
these  present  times,  something  so  common  and 
compromising  that  a  man  may  get  through  the 
experience  of  human  life  almost  as  well  without 
it  as  with  it,  to  make  it  a  bracket  in  religion 
with  Hinduism,  and  a  conjugation  in  philosophy 
with  Platonism,  not  to  insist  upon  it  as  some- 
thing sole,  single,  and  sublime,  not  to  declare 
that  it  makes  a  unique  demand  and  confers  an 
exclusive  benefit — this  is  most  surely  to  darken 
the  light  of  the  world  and  to  turn  men  shelter- 
less again  into  the  night  of  paganism.  It  is 
to  destroy  Christianity.  Christianity,  irresistible 
as  a  religion,  is  vulnerable  at  every  point  as  a 
philosophy.  Either  it  must  be  brought  home 
to  men  as  the  express  revelation  of  God,  the 
chief  necessity  of  existence,  and  a  power  un- 
paralleled and  supernatural,  or  it  sinks  fatally 
to  the  level  of  speculation,  and  becomes  to  the 
man  of  science  a  folly  and  to  the  bulk  of 
humanity  a  matter  of  indifference. 

Ill 

Christianity  differs,  with  the  altitude  of  heaven 
and  the  radius  of  infinity,  from  all  other  religions 


16  INTRODUCTION 

under  the  sun,  first  and  foremost  in  the  nature 
of  its  foundational  affirmation.  It  declares  itself 
to  be  a  revelation  from  God  and  (mark  well)  a 
blessing  to  humanity.  All  other  religions  are 
human  explications.  Buddha,  Confucius,  Lao, 
Zoroaster  and  Mohammed,  all  these  men  stand  in 
the  same  category  as  Socrates,  Swedenborg,  and 
Kant.  They  do  not  profess  to  be  more  than 
men.  Their  religions  are  human  interpretations 
and  explanations;  they  begin  with  the  honest 
affirmation  that  they  do  but  attempt  to  explain 
the  moral  and  social  problems  of  human  life  or 
to  amplify  the  religion  they  found  already  in 
existence. 

To  the  sick  and  dying  soul  of  the  human 
race  Buddhism  comes  as  a  Job's  comforter; 
Christianity  as  a  healing  physician.  Buddhism 
diagnoses  the  disease  and  gives  it  a  name; 
Christianity  cures  it.  Buddhism  explains  why 
the  patient  should  bear  his  sufferings  and  remain 
patient  under  his  afflictions;  Christianity  com- 
mands him  to  take  up  his  bed  and  walk. 
Buddhism  explains  everything,  and  leaves  every- 
thing as  it  was  before  the  explanation.  Chris- 
tianity sets  out  to  explain  nothing,  and  trans- 
figures the  whole  fabric  of  existence. 

All  other  religions  are  efforts,  more  or  less 
beautiful,  more  or  less  intellectual,  to  find  a  way 
out  from  the  world.  Christianity  is  inwards  to 
the  world  from  the  universe  which  includes  the 


INTRODUCTION  17 

world.  It  is  not  the  speculation  or  inspiration 
of  man,  but  a  light  from  heaven,  a  hand  from 
eternity,  the  voice  of  God.  No  religion  save 
Christianity  makes  any  such  claim;  no  other 
religion  has  so  daring  an  ascription.  From  the 
earth  in  which  they  have  their  roots,  these 
shadow-faiths  of  groping  men  look  up  and  strive 
to  find  their  way  amongst  the  stars;  they  ballast 
the  soul  with  pessimism  and  wing  it  with  argu- 
ments, and,  thus  prepared,  send  it  a  circuit  of 
the  empyrean;  they  guess  their  way  across  eter- 
nity and  with  a  clue  of  Ariadne  would  circum- 
navigate infinity;  their  God  is  an  intuition,  their 
faith  a  fancy,  and  their  law  of  life  a  conjecture. 
Christianity's  foundational  affirmation  is  a 
supernatural  origin.  It  is  not  a  human  presump- 
tion, but  a  divine  revelation.  It  is  a  gift  from 
God  to  man,  and  not  a  guess  by  man  at  God. 
The  human  brain  is  not  concerned  at  all  in  the 
origin  of  this  religion;  it  did  not  spring  from 
the  dreams  of  poets,  the  visions  of  prophets, 
the  reasoning  of  philosophers.  It  came  to 
humanity  from  outside  humanity's  history  and 
experience.  Christ  declared  Himself  to  be  sanc- 
tified by  the  Father  and  sent  into  the  world. 
"  This  commandment  have  I  received  of  My 
Father  "  is  an  utterance  unique  in  human  records, 
and  it  is  the  ground-motive  of  all  that  luminous 
discourse  which  is  the  good-news  and  revelation 
of  Christianity.     St.  Paul  described  himself  to 


18  INTRODUCTION 

men  as  "  an  apostle,  not  of  men,  neither  by  man, 
but  by  Jesus  Christ,  and  God  the  Father,  who 
raised  Him  from  the  dead."  St.  Paul  believed 
this,  and  those  who  heard  him  knew  that  he 
believed  it; — "  not  of  men,  neither  by  man." 
A  man  may  doubt  or  altogether  reject  the  truth 
of  Christianity,  but  he  cannot  deny  either  from 
its  documents  or  from  the  course  of  history,  that 
it  claimed  to  be  a  divine  and  supernatural  revela- 
tion. The  cross  of  Calvary,  set  up  in  the  centre 
of  time,  and  dividing  the  ages  of  the  world  in 
twain,  witnesses,  if  to  nothing  else,  at  least  to 
this.     "  Christ  did  not  die  for  a  metaphor." 

At  the  beginning,  then,  there  is  this  immense 
gulf  separating  Christianity  from  all  other  re- 
ligions. The  origin  of  the  one  claims  to  be 
divine;  the  origins  of  the  others  do  not  profess 
to  be  anything  but  human.  Other  religions  ex- 
plain; Christianity  reveals. 

IV 

If  men  are  disposed  to  forget  or  to  slur  the 
foundational  affirmation  of  Christianity,  much 
more  do  they  obscure  the  central  and  unequivocal 
assurance  of  Christ  that  His  revelation  is  a  com- 
plete satisfaction  of  the  soul,  and  the  only  secret 
of  enduring  joy. 

That  this  is  indeed  the  case  may  be  seen 
vividly  and  amazingly  in  the  disposition  even  of 


INTRODUCTION  19 

able  and  devout  Christians  to  establish  a  com- 
parison between,  and  to  seek  a  likeness  in,  Chris- 
tianity and  Buddhism.  For  these  two  religions 
"  stand  at  diameter  and  sword's  point."  They 
are  each  the  antipodes  of  the  other.  There  is 
no  antagonism  to  be  discovered  in  nature  or  hit 
upon  in  the  imagination,  save  only  that  one 
eternal  antagonism  between  good  and  evil,  more 
complete,  contrary,  and  counter  than  the  an- 
tithesis of  these  two  religions. 

Christianity  is  janua  vitae;  Buddhism,  janua 
mortis.  Christianity  is  an  ardent  enthusiasm  for 
existence;  Buddhism  a  painful  yearning  for 
annihilation.  Christianity  is  a  hunger  and  thirst 
after  joy;  Buddhism  a  chloral  quest  for  in- 
sensibility. The  Christian  is  bidden  to  turn  away 
from  sin  that  he  may  inherit  the  everlasting  joy 
of  eternity;  the  Buddhist  is  told  to  eradicate 
all  desire  of  any  kind  whatsoever  lest  he  be 
born  again.  Buddha  sought  to  discover  an  escape 
from  existence;  Christ  opened  the  door  of  life. 
Buddha  forbade  desire;  Christ  intensified  as- 
piration. Buddha  promised  anaesthesia;  Christ 
promised  everlasting  felicity. 

By  what  blunder  of  the  intellect  can  men  have 
come  to  believe  that  a  likeness  exists  in  these 
two  hostile  attitudes  of  the  soul  towards  its 
destiny?  The  reason  is  perhaps  the  fruitfullest 
cause  of  damage  to  the  revelation  of  Christ.  It 
is  because,  first  Judaism,  and  then  sacerdotalism 


20  INTRODUCTION 

and  extreme  Calvinism  have  succeeded  in  pre- 
senting Christ  to  Europe  in  precisely  the  same 
light  as  that  in  which  Buddha  stands,  of  his 
own  choosing,  to  Asia, — namely,  as  the  means 
of  an  escape  from  hereafter  woe  and  not  as  the 
giver  and  bestower  of  joy,  present  and  ever- 
lasting. "  These  words  have  I  spoken  unto  you," 
said  the  Christ,  "  that  My  joy  might  remain  in 
you,  and  that  your  joy  might  be  full."  The 
supreme  glory  of  His  revelation,  that  the 
Creator  of  the  universe  is  the  Father  of  men, 
cannot  make  for  dejection  and  abasement,  it 
must  make  for  hope,  confidence,  and  elation. 
"  Come  unto  Me  all  ye  that  are  weary  and 
heavy-laden.  ...  I  am  the  Light  of  the  World. 
.  .  .  Your  heart  shall  rejoice,  and  your  joy  no 
man  taketh  from  you.  .  .  .  He  that  cometh 
unto  Me  shall  never  hunger;  and  he  that  be- 
lieveth  in  Me  shall  never  thirst.  .  .  .  Rejoice 
and  be  exceeding  glad.  .  .  .  Your  sorrow  shall 
be  turned  into  joy.  .  .  .1  am  come  that  they 
might  have  life,  and  that  they  might  have  it 
more  abundantly.  .  .  .  He  that  believeth  on 
Me  hath  everlasting  life.  .  .  .  Come,  ye  blessed 
of  My  Father,  inherit  the  Kingdom  prepared  for 
you  from  the  foundation  of  the  world." 

Christianity  is  a  sublime  and  supernatural 
optimism;  there  is  no  deeper  and  more  ex- 
haustive pessimism  than  the  religion  of  Buddha. 
"  Misery,"    says    the    ancient    formula    of    the 


INTRODUCTION  21 

Eastern  religion,  "  always  accompanies  existence. 
All  modes  of  existence  result  from  desire.  There 
is  no  escape  from  existence  except  by  destruction 
of  desire."  Compare  these  propositions  with  the 
words,  "  I  am  corns  that  they  might  have  life, 
and  that  they  might  have  it  more  abundantly." 
It  must  be  noted,  if  only  in  passing,  that 
Christ  frequently  insists  upon  immortality  as  a 
gift  from  God,  not  as  something  inherent  in 
man's  soul.  Of  those  who  believe  in  Him,  He 
says :  "I  give  unto  them  eternal  life;  and  they 
shall  never  perish."  "  Fear  Him  that  hath  power 
to  destroy  both  soul  and  body."  "  Except  ye 
believe  that  I  am  He,  ye  shall  die  in  your  sins." 
"  Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  you,  If  a  man  keep 
My  word  he  shall  never  see  death."  "  Ye  will 
not  come  to  Me  that  ye  may  have  life."  Few 
people  know  that  the  immortality  of  the  soul  is 
a  dogma  of  the  Roman  Church  in  the  sixteenth 
century.  "  According  to  the  first  Christian  idea, 
which  was  the  true  one,"  says  Renan,  "  only 
those  would  rise  again  who  >had  helped  to  estab- 
lish the  reign  of  God  on  the  earth;  the  punish- 
ment of  the  wicked  and  frivolous  would  be  ex- 
tinction." "  I  know  of  no  subject,"  says  a  French 
pastor,  who  believes  that  the  Romish  doctrine  of 
eternal  torment  lias  almost  destroyed  Christianity 
in  France,  "  on  which  the  Bible  is  more  explicit 
than  on  the  destiny  of  the  impenitent.  It  declares 
as  plainly  as  possible  that  those  who  persist  in 


22  INTRODUCTION 

turning  from  God  are  on  the  way  to  eternal 
destruction."  The  Encyclopaedia  Biblica  says  of 
the  heavenly  Kingdom :  "  The  righteous  rise  to 
share  in  it;  but  only  the  righteous:  the  resur- 
rection is  only  to  life  .  .  .  the  resurrection  is 
conceived  as  springing  from  God  .  .  .  the 
wicked  have  no  part.  .  .  .  Only  those,  there- 
fore, attain  to  the  resurrection  who  *  are  ac- 
counted worthy '  to  attain  to  that  world,  and 
the  resurrection  from  the  dead  "  (Eschatology, 
col.  1375).  Only  in  the  mouth  of  Satan  does 
the  Bible  suggest  a  universal  immortality — "  Ye 
shall  not  surely  die";  and  never  once  does  it 
employ  the  word  "  life  "  in  describing  the  state 
of  the  iniquitous.  Eternal  joy  is  for  those  who 
desire  it.1 

Whether  we  believe  in  Universalism,  Tradi- 
tionalism, or  a  Conditional  Immortality,  certain 
and  incontestable  is  the  proposition  that  Christ 
made  His  revelation  as  a  blessing,  and  claimed 
for  Himself  the  position  of  a  benefactor.  "  For 
life  to  be  fruitful,  life  must  be  felt  as  a  blessing." 
And  yet  it  is  this  saving,  blessing,  joy-breathing, 

1  An  interesting  pamphlet  on  I'immortalite  facultative  is 
Bible  Immortality,  by  H.  G.  Emeric  de  St.  Dalmas,  pub- 
lished by  the  Colston  Press  at  Malvern;  price  sixpence. 
Professor  Gerald  Leighton  in  The  Greatest  Life  (Duck- 
worth) argues  from  a  biological  standpoint  that  "  a  soul 
is  not  born  but  made.  It  is  no  more  born  than  mind  is 
born.  Both  are  acquired,  even  if  we  suppose  they  are 
independent." 


INTRODUCTION  23 

and  life-giving  Christ  Who  has  come  to  stand  in 
men's  minds  chiefly  and  almost  solely  as  a  sor- 
rowful saviour  from  eternal  torment,  an  intensely 
tragic  and  pathetic  mediator  between  a  doomed 
humanity  and  the  wrath  of  a  violent  God. 
Humanity  has  rejected  this  idea.  The  American 
who  closed  a  discussion  on  eternal  punishment 
with  the  amusing  judgment,  "  Well,  all  I  can 
say  is  that  our  people  would  never  stand  it ! ' 
spoke  unknowingly  for  the  healthy  conscience 
and  the  clear  reason  of  all  the  world.  Bagehot's 
phrase  about  Satan's  victory  over  mankind — "  It 
is  as  if  an  army  should  invest  a  cottage  " — is  more 
than  picturesque;  it  is  final.  The  origin  of  evil, 
so  far  as  human  intelligence  can  comprehend  it, 
is  sufficiently  explained  by  evolution.  It  is  a 
phase  in  progressive  creation.  Mankind  will  not 
ascribe  either  folly  or  injustice  to  God.  It  is  a 
mark  of  our  potential  divinity  that  we  cannot 
worship  a  Monster  or  fawn  to  a  Tyrant. 

Both  sacerdotalism  and  extreme  Calvinism  are 
responsible  for  this  false  God.  They  have  dread- 
fully degraded  the  idea  of  "  Our  Father  which 
art  in  heaven,"  and  sadly  obscured  the  mission  of 
the  Christ  whom  He  sanctified  and  sent  into  the 
world.  How  different,  how  attractive,  how  com- 
pelling, how  infinitely  more  lofty  and  divine  is 
the  Father  of  Christ's  parables  and  the  Christ 
of  the  New  Testament.  He  came  to  bring  life 
and  immortality  to  light.     He  came  to  give  joy. 


24  INTRODUCTION 

He  came  to  bestow  an  immortality  of  unimagined 
wonder  and  delight.  In  proclaiming  the  Father- 
hood of  God  He  opened  the  gates  of  eternal 
bliss.  With  the  words  Love  and  Life  upon 
His  lips,  He  stands  in  the  midst  of  the  world 
offering  an  immortality  of  joy.  When  He  turns 
to  the  sinner  it  is  to  promise  an  everlasting 
happiness  for  repentance.  When  He  turns  to 
the  wicked  it  is  to  warn  them  of  the  unutterable 
loss  of  eternal  life.  There  is  nothing  more  and 
nothing  less  to  be  made  out  of  the  Christian 
documents.  Christ  came  to  manifest  the  Father- 
hood of  God  and  to  declare  His  Will.  The 
Fatherhood  of  God  makes  for  security  and  for 
elation.  To  do  His  Will  is  to  inherit  everlasting 
happiness. 

Christianity  differs  from  all  other  religions 
in  its  superhuman  origin  and  in  its  definite 
promise  of  life.  Any  form  of  religious  zeal 
which  does  not  make  this  essential  differentiation 
the  base  of  its  labour  and  the  spirit  of  its  energy, 
must  tend  to  bring  Christianity  into  a  fatal  com- 
petition with  the  mere  philosophies  and  theoso- 
phies  of  human  pessimism,  and  thus  destroy  its 
power  to  cleanse  the  heart  and  thus  limit  its 
willingness  to  bestow  immortal  life.  "  For  life 
to  be  fruitful,  life  must  be  felt  as  a  blessing.' 
1  See  Note  A  at  end  of  book. 


»  i 


INTRODUCTION  25 

V 

There  is  another  respect  in  which  Christanity 
is  wholly  different  from  other  religions.  It  is 
a  Faith  which  seeks  disciples,  a  missionary  and 
converting  Faith,  a  Faith  which  despairs  of  no 
man,  and  is  able  to  save  the  most  abandoned 
and  wretched  victims  of  sin.  You  will  look  in 
vain  among  all  the  other  religions  of  the  world 
for  missions  to  foreign  nations  and  missions  to 
the  sinful  and  sorrowful.  No  other  religion 
attempts  to  rescue  the  malefactor  and  the  sen- 
sualist. 

It  is  the  attitude  of  Christianity  to  the  sinner, 
a  tender,  solicitous  and  compassionate  attitude, 
which  more  than  anything  else  in  its  relation 
to  mankind  has  struck  the  imagination  of  the 
world.  The  invective  of  Christ  was  for  the  tra- 
ditionalism and  formalism  of  His  day;  His  ten- 
derness and  His  love  were  for  the  weary  and 
heavy-laden.  "  Ye  will  not  come  to  Me  that 
ye  may  have  life."  The  attitude  of  Christianity 
to  the  sinner  is  the  incomparable  Fifteenth  Chap- 
ter of  St.  Luke.  Everything  is  said  in  the  words, 
"  But  when  he  was  yet  a  great  way  off  his 
father  saw  him";  and  the  conclusion  of  the 
whole  matter  is  in  the  words,  "  It  was  meet  that 
we  should  make  merry,  and  be  glad;  for  this  thy 
brother  was  dead,  and  is  alive  again;  and  was 
lost,  and  is  found." 


26  INTRODUCTION 

Such  a  spirit  exists  in  no  religion  conceived 
in  the  brain  of  man.  Only  in  Christianity  does 
the  love  of  God  beat  down  upon  the  sinful;  only 
in  Christianity  does  a  Saviour  stand  at  the  door 
of  the  hardening  heart;  only  in  Christianity  is  it 
written,  "  The  Son  of  Man  is  come  to  seek  and 
to  save  that  which  was  lost." 

Christianity,  then,  differs  from  all  other  re- 
ligions, in  its  superhuman  origin,  in  its  definite 
promise  of  life,  and  in  its  attitude  to  sinners.1 

VI 

Now,  it  is  of  no  more  avail  merely  to  asseverate 
the  divine  origin  of  Christianity  than  it  is  to 
postulate  a  good  and  beneficent  First  Cause. 
Unless  proofs  of  an  incontestable  and  persuasive 
kind  can  be  brought  to  the  heart  and  under- 
standing of  men,  proofs  which  make  it  impossible 
to  deny  the  claim  of  Christ  that  He  was  sent 
into  the  world  by  a  heavenly  Father,  mankind 
will  persist  in  regarding  Christianity  only  as  one 
of  many  religions,  only  as  one  of  many  ancient 
superstitions,  only  as  a  philosophy  which  may 
or  may  not  be  a  good  guess  at  the  truth  of  things, 
but  which  is  certainly  dispensable  and  non- 
essential. 

Is  it  possible  for  Christianity  to  give  these 
proofs? 

1  See  Note  B  at  end  of  book. 


INTRODUCTION  St% 

The  body  of  this  book  is  an  answer  to  that 
question.  The  proofs  of  Christianity  lie  in  the 
cleansed  hearts  and  higher  selves  of  that  vast 
multitude  which  Christ  has  sought  and  saved. 
There  can  be  no  other  proof,  and  no  higher  and 
more  miraculous  proof.  Christianity  does  what 
it  is  declared  by  Christ  able  to  do,  and  what  no 
other  religion  and  no  arm  of  science  can  achieve. 
It  is  a  power  by  which  men  can  be  born  again. 
It  is  a  power  which  transforms  the  sensualist, 
the  criminal,  the  victim  of  alcoholic  poisoning, 
the  trivial,  the  mean,  the  self-righteous,  the  melan- 
choly, the  base,  and  the  ignoble  into  souls  worthy 
of  eternal  life.  Wherever  Christianity  seeks  the 
lost,  it  finds  and  it  saves.  Homes  of  wretched- 
ness and  misery  become  at  its  entrance  micro- 
cosms of  God.  The  chances  and  changes  of  this 
mortal  life,  the  violence  of  the  world's  hostility, 
the  whisperings  and  leadings  of  temptation,  even 
the  havoc  and  desolation  of  death,  are  borne  by 
Christianity  with  fortitude  and  without  despair. 
The  earth  ceases  to  be  either  insignificant  or 
meaningless,  life  becomes  definitely  grand  and 
beautiful,  "  the  sacred  passion  of  the  second  life  ' 
ennobles  and  exalts  the  soul,  character  and  under- 
standing enlarge  themselves  to  the  bounds  of 
an  infinite  universe,  and  the  spirit  of  man  feels 
itself  conscious  of  a  capacity  for  everlasting 
growth  in  bliss,  and  conscious  of  a  divine  sonship 
with  God. 


28  INTRODUCTION 

The  happiness,  the  peace,  the  purity,  the  won- 
der, and  the  hunger  and  thirst  after  immortality, 
of  the  cleansed  heart — these  are  the  proofs  of 
Christianity. 

VII 

"  Yet  I  dare  not  say  that  the  effects  have 
been  proportionate  to  the  divine  wisdom  of  the 
Scheme."  The  sweetest  of  English  prose-writers 
uttered  before  Coleridge's  day  the  lament,  "  That 
name  and  compilation  of  Little  Flock,  doth  not 
comfort,  but  deject  my  Devotion."  How  can  it 
be  that  a  religion  so  rich  in  happiness  and  so 
overflowing  with  joy,  has  made  but  a  slow  prog- 
ress through  a  world  so  weary  and  heavy-laden? 
Must  it  not  be  the  fault  of  those  whose  mission 
it  has  been  to  set  before  men  this  priceless  gift 
of  heaven?  The  gift  itself  cannot  be  accused; 
the  world,  because  it  is  so  unhappy,  cannot  alto- 
gether be  arraigned;  there  is  only  that  company 
left  for  judgment  to  whom  was  given  the  com- 
mand, "  Let  your  light  so  shine  before  men  that 
they  may  see  your  good  works  and  glorify  your 
Father  which  is  in  heaven." 

"  Clericalism,"  said  Gambetta,  "  is  the  enemy." 
It  is  the  enemy  in  a  much  wider  and  infinitely 
more  disastrous  sense  than  the  mere  patriot 
understood.  It  is  the  enemy  of  Christianity. 
The  narrowest  Calvinists  have  disgusted  men  with 


INTRODUCTION  29 

God;  the  most  foolish  of  sacerdotalists  have  made 
religion  laughable.  Extreme  Calvinism  was  too 
inhuman  to  succeed;  sacerdotalism  preys  upon 
the  weakness  of  human  nature,  and  endures. 

Unconsciously  and  with  all  mistaken  zeal  the 
enthusiasts  for  sacerdotalism  have  obscured  the 
Light  of  the  World  and  obstructed  the  Way,  the 
Truth,  and  the  Life.  While  they  should  have 
been  seeking  and  saving  the  lost,  they  have  been 
altering  the  fashions  in  church  millinery  and 
composing  a  new  etiquette  for  the  altar.  While 
they  should  have  been  turning  the  hearts  of 
the  disobedient  to  the  wisdom  of  the  just,  they 
have  been  searching  the  musty  service-books  of 
medisevalism  for  "  a  new  cringe."  They  are  more 
concerned  to  get  their  Orders  recognised  by  an 
Ecclesiasticism  everywhere  dying  in  Europe,  even 
in  Spain,  than  in  bringing  home  to  the  soul  of 
the  world  that  a  man  must  be  born  again  before 
he  can  enter  into  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  It 
is  not  the  Light  of  the  World  they  make  to  shine 
before  men,  but  a  forbidden  candle  on  a  forsaken 
altar. 

Sacerdotalism  is  Vensorcellement  de  la  baga- 
telle. It  is  a  mental  disease,  an  obsession,  an 
idee  fixe,  which  is  as  disfiguring  to  character 
and  as  fatal  to  grandeur  of  soul  as  the  aestheti- 
cism  of  Oscar  Wilde  or  the  crotchet  of  Horace 
Walpole.  "  The  conformation  of  his  mind  was 
such  that   whatever   was   little   seemed   to  him 


30  INTRODUCTION 

great,  and  whatever  was  great  seemed  to  him 
little."  The  seriousness  of  this  matter  does  not 
lie  in  the  sacerdotalist's  mistake  of  accounting 
little  things  great,  but  in  his  insistent,  pertina- 
cious, and  corner-creeping 1  assertion  that  great 
things  are  little.  "  What  must  God  be,"  asked 
George  Grove,  "  if  He  is  pleased  by  things  which 
simply  displease  his  educated  creatures !  "  It  is 
by  this  mistake,  all  down  the  ages,  this  belittling 
of  God  and  disfiguring  of  Christ,  that  masses  of 
men  have  come  to  entertain  petty  notions  of  ex- 
istence, have  ceased  to  think  of  Christ  even  with 
admiration,  and  have  grown  at  last  indifferent  to 
immortality. 

"  This  was  the  first  and  true  apostasy — when 
in  Council  and  Synod  the  Divine  Humanities  of 
the  Gospel  gave  way  to  speculative  Systems,  and 
Religion  became  a  Science  of  Shadows  .  .  . 
without  life  or  interest,  alike  inaccessible  and 
unintelligible  to  the  majority  of  Christians.  For 
these,  therefore,  there  remained  only  rites  and 
ceremonies  and  spectacles,  shows  and  sem- 
blances." 

"  I  cannot  but  think,"  writes  an  earnest  and 
devout  Churchman,  "  that  if  there  be  one  thing 
of  which  the  world  to-day  stands  in  more  im- 
perative need  than  of  any  other,  it  is  the  revolt 

10  Agents  of  conversion  to  the  Romish  Church,  corner- 
creepers  as  they  were  called,  penetrated  everywhere." — M. 
Arnold.    Mixed  Essays. 


INTRODUCTION  31 

of  '  the  Church  ' — i.e.,  of  '  the  blessed  company 
of  all  believing  people ' — and  especially  of  the 
thinking  and  seeing  lay-element,  against  every 
form  of  mere  Clericalism.  I  do  not,  of  course, 
mean  any  narrow  or  petty  revolt,  or  anything 
that  has  in  it  the  least  strain  of  that  very 
*  grooviness '  which  has  for  so  many  centuries 
dominated  the  clerical  mind,  but  just  that  great 
life-giving,  energising  Spirit  of  God,  asserting 
Himself  over  and  above  human  dogma."  The 
call  of  St.  Paul  to  the  Churches  in  Galatia,  where 
the  Christian  idea  was  in  danger  of  a  reversion 
to  sacerdotalism,  is  the  call  of  our  own  day 
threatened  by  a  like  calamity — "  Stand  fast  there- 
fore in  the  liberty  wherewith  Christ  hath  made 
us  free,  and  be  not  entangled  again  with  the  yoke 
of  bondage." 

One  is  as  anxious  for  the  sacerdotalist  to 
realise  that  a  new  era  of  Christianity  is  at  hand, 
as  one  is  solicitous  to  convert  irreligious  man- 
kind to  the  true  character  and  mission  of  Christ. 
"  The  prophet  and  the  priest,"  says  Mr.  Andrew 
Macphail,  "  are  inevitable  enemies,  and  yet  with- 
out the  priest  the  prophet  ends  as  a  voice  crying 
in  the  wilderness  " — not  always  perhaps,  but  cer- 
tainly one  must  desire  to  have  the  engine  of  the 
Church  on  the  side  of  the  true  Christ,  not  only 
to  prevent  it  from  the  frightful  work  of  mis- 
representing the  glory  and  the  power  of  God,  but 
to  gain  the  active  co-operation  of  its  saints. — I 


32  INTRODUCTION 

have  written  hoping  to  destroy  in  some  men's 
minds  V  ensorcellenient  de  la  bagatelle,  to  awaken 
them  to  the  attractiveness  of  a  nobler  Chris- 
tianity, and  to  give  them,  if  it  be  possible,  from 
a  few  brief  but  touching  and  miraculous  narra- 
tives, an  enthusiasm  for  the  true  mission  and  the 
real  vocation  of  a  Christian. 

As  there  can  be  no  comparison  of  Buddhism 
with  Christianity,  so  can  there  be  no  comparison 
between  establishing  a  dogma,  however  true, 
or  holding  a  set  of  opinions,  however  rational, 
and  saving  the  souls  of  men.  By  saving  men 
individually  the  Church  saves  Society,  and  by 
saving  Society  she  brings  millennium.  It  is  in 
the  power  of  Christianity — and  in  the  power  of 
no  other  religion  or  agency  under  heaven — to 
redeem  humanity,  to  dignify  human  life,  and 
to  bring  the  whole  world  into  the  joy  and  appre- 
hension of  the  God  in  knowledge  of  Whom 
standeth  our  eternal  life.  Is  it  not  a  sublime  and 
glorious  destiny  to  which  the  human  race  is  called 
by  the  Light  of  the  World?— and  is  it  not  mani- 
fest that  humanity  will  only  respond  to  that  call 
when  those  who  profess  and  call  themselves 
Christians  so  reflect  the  Light  of  the  World  in 
their  happiness,  their  serenity,  and  their  holiness, 
that  they  appear  as  a  city  set  on  an  hill,  different 
from  all  other  men,  separate  from  all  schools 
and  sects,  and  so  attractive  and  compelling 
that    the    world    outside    the    radius    of    their 


INTRODUCTION  33 

joy  is  felt  to  be  a  darkness,  an  isolation,  and 
a  death? 

•  •  •  •  • 

What  is  to  be  the  attitude  of  the  Church  to- 
wards the  modern  spirit  of  unrest  everywhere 
manifesting  itself  in  civilisation?  It  is  not 
democracy  alone  which  is  restless;  every  section 
and  class  of  the  social  organism  is  conscious  of 
dissatisfaction  and  aware  of  a  dragging  of 
anchors  and  a  movement  from  ancient  moorings; 
the  unrest  is  not  material,  it  is  spiritual, — its 
origin  is  in  the  soul  of  man.  What  is  it  that 
the  Church  has  to  say  to  a  generation  which  has 
outgrown  the  moods  and  passions  of  the  past, 
which  is  sceptical  of  history,  distrustful  of  author- 
ity, and  contemptuous  of  superstition, — a  genera- 
tion which  is  not  in  the  least  interested  in  sec- 
tarian conflict,  which  is  no  longer  beguiled  by 
the  ingenuities  of  the  casuist,  and  which  has 
ceased  to  believe  either  in  a  sudden  heaven  or  a 
sudden  hell? 

It  is  surely  unwise  to  deny  to  the  Christian 
revelation  the  properties  of  growth,  development, 
and  evolution,  to  go  back  to  the  past  for  finality, 
and  to  make  of  Tradition  the  one  steadfast  and 
unchanging  Fact  of  a  universe  constantly  in  flux. 
There  is  a  Spirit  which  guides  men  into  Truth, 
and  it  is  certain  that  religion  must  move  and 
enlarge  its  concepts  with  that  central  progress 
of  humanity  towards  a  less  partial  understanding 


34  INTRODUCTION 

of  cosmic  reality.  What  is  it,  then,  that  an 
evolving  Church  has  to  say  to  a  generation  full  of 
unrest  because  it  desires  to  believe  and  does  not 
know  what  to  believe?  Has  she  one  voice,  or 
many  voices?  Does  she  truly  feel  herself  ade- 
quate to  the  world's  unrest? 

Let  her  first  of  all  be  rid  of  insolence  in 
Authority  and  dissidence  in  Dissent.  And  then 
let  her  tear  up  the  old  documents  of  sectarian 
puerilities,  and  recognise  the  Christlessness  of  bit- 
terness and  animosity.  The  Church  has  some- 
thing to  say,  but  much  more  to  do.  Her  words 
must  always  be  human;  her  actions  can  be  divine. 
She  has  overtalked  herself;  it  is  time  she  made 
herself  the  leaven  of  humanity.  Nothing  is  of 
so  much  moment  as  character;  not  what  we  can 
express  in  words  as  to  that  which  we  believe 
is  of  value,  but  rather,  how  surely  and  attractively 
we  reflect  in  the  tone  of  our  character  and  the 
manner  of  our  living  the  unselfishness,  the  beauty, 
and  the  calm  of  Christ.  Let  us  know  for  very 
certain  that  the  measure  of  our  Christianity  is 
the  measure  of  our  power  in  this  world  to  attract 
the  unhappy,  heal  the  sick,  and  raise  the  dead. 
We  are  philosophers  when  we  confute;  we  are 
Christians  when  we  persuade  and  attract. 

The  Church  must  save  sinners,  and,  rejoicing 
in  the  gift  of  life,  must  make  herself  felt  as  a 
blessing  to  humanity.  She  can  only  hope  truly 
to  represent  the  Christ  when  she  has  possessed 


INTRODUCTION  35 

herself  of  the  primitive  enthusiasm  for  a  revela- 
tion, and  has  grasped  the  meaning  of  the  divine 
words:  "  I  am  come  that  they  might  have  Life, 
and  that  they  might  have  it  more  abundantly." 
The  Church  must  be  felt  as  a  blessing;  she  must 
attract;  she  must  save  before  she  can  be 
triumphant. 

Let  her,  then,  bid  farewell  to  a  morbid  abase- 
ment and  a  repelling  pessimism:  to  the  shadows 
of  philosophy  and  the  semblance  of  sestheticism; 
to  all  that  is  dark  and  forbidding;  to  all  that  is 
unreal  and  transitory;  to  all  that  is  artificial 
and  sentimental;  to  all  that  is  trivial  and  un- 
worthy; and  let  her  manifest  to  the  world  shining 
joy,  unclouded  serenity,  everlasting  aspiration, 
the  attraction  of  beauty  and  the  power  to  save. 

"  For  life  to  be  fruitful,  life  must  be  felt  as 
a  blessing." 

Not  for  these  sad  issues 
Was  Man  created;  but  to  obey  the  law 
Of  life,  and  hope,  and  action.     And  'tis  known 
That  when  we  stand  upon  our  native  soil, 
Unelbowed  by  such   objects  as  oppress 
Our  active  powers,  those  powers  themselves  become 
Strong  to  subvert  our  noxious  qualities. 
They  sweep  distemper  from  the  busy  day, 
And  make  the  chalice  of  the  big  round  year 
Run  o'er  with  gladness :  whence  the  Being  moves 
In  beauty  through  the  world;  and  all  who  see 
Bless  him,   rejoicing   in   his   neighbourhood. 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

"Doubt  of  any  sort  cannot  be  removed  except  by  action." 

A  COMMUNITY  of  men  and  women,  pledged 
to  make  the  ideas  of  Chist  prevail  in 
Central  London,  pledged  to  exalt  the  char- 
acter of  Christ  in  the  midst  of  London's  stream- 
ing roar,  and  pledged  to  minister,  in  the  name 
of  Christ,  to  the  sorrowful  and  suffering  at  the 
heart  of  the  metropolis,  meets  every  Sunday  in 
the  Lyceum  Theatre,  where  once  the  genius  of 
a  great  actor  attracted  all  mankind. 

This  community,  which  had  its  first  inspiration 
in  the  wonderful  work  of  the  Salvation  Army, 
and  which  came  into  existence  through  the  burn- 
ing enthusiasm  of  Hugh  Price  Hughes,  calls 
itself  the  West  London  Mission.  Its  central 
impulse  is  the  conviction  that  Christianity  is  a 
missionary  religion.  It  believes  that  formalism 
is  dangerous  to  the  spirit  of  that  religion.  It 
holds  that  the  multitude  has  still  to  be  sought, 
wooed,  and  compelled;  that  the  conscience  of 
humanity  has  still  to  be  awakened  and  the  heart 
of  humanity  still  to  be  converted;  that  Central 
London  stands  in  as  great  need  of  missionaries, 
disciples,  and  apostles  as  the  farthermost  dark- 

36 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  37 

ness  of  a  savage  heathendom.  Above  and  be- 
yond everything  else,  it  is  a  mission.  Not  one 
of  the  devoted  men  and  women  who  form  this 
community  but  feels  deep  in  the  heart  the  call 
of  the  disciple  and  the  commission  of  the  apostle. 
They  are  all  seekers  and  savers.  This  was  the 
great  aspiration  of  that  man,  both  great  and 
good — Hugh  Price  Hughes — to  have  an  army  in 
the  centre  of  London  never  on  a  peace  footing, 
never  abandoned  to  mere  festivities,  and  never 
enervated  and  fatigued  by  monotonous  drills  and 
wearisome  exercises,  but  an  army  ever  at  war 
against  all  that  is  vile,  base,  and  degrading,  an 
army  ever  exhilarated  by  the  zest  of  conflict  and 
forcible  with  the  hardihood  of  active  service,  an 
army  whose  battle-song  should  be  no  morbid 
whine  after  individual  mercy,  but  the  glorious 
song  of  William  Blake: — 

I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 
Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land. 

It  is  to  a  community  such  as  the  West  London 
Mission  that  the  inquirer  must  go  if  he  would 
really  understand  the  place  and  power  of  Chris- 
tianity in  the  destinies  of  the  human  race.  The 
formalist  cannot  help  him;  nay,  in  ninety-nine 
cases  out  of  a  hundred  the  formalist  does  not 
at  all  represent  the  religion  of  Christ,  but  does 


38  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

most  lamentably  and  disastrously  misrepresent 
that  incommunicable  feeling  and  aspiring  worship 
of  the  soul.  "  His  religion  has  been  made  for 
him  by  others,  communicated  to  him  by  tradition, 
determined  to  fixed  forms  by  imitation,  and 
retained  by  habit.  .  .  .  Churches  when  once 
established  live  at  second-hand  upon  tradition." 
A  Buddhist  or  a  Mohammedan  could  get  no  true 
notion  of  the  Christian  religion  by  spending  his 
whole  life  in  the  cathedrals  and  churches  of 
Europe.  Nor,  if  he  gave  himself  up  to  a  study 
of  mass-books,  catechisms,  prayer-books,  hym- 
nologies,  controversial  theologies  and  missals  of 
mysticism,  would  he  ever  arrive  at  the  heart  and 
soul  of  this  religion.  For  the  heart  and  soul  of 
Christianity  is  Action. 

"  Conviction,"  says  Teufelsdrockh,  "  were  it 
never  so  excellent,  is  worthless  till  it  convert 
itself  into  Conduct.  Nay,  properly,  Conviction 
is  not  possible  till  then;  inasmuch  as  all  Specu- 
lation is  by  nature  endless,  formless,  a  vortex 
amid  vortices : *  only  by  a  felt  indubitable  cer- 
tainty of  Experience  does  it  find  any  centre  to 
revolve  round,  and  so  fashion  itself  into  a  system. 
Most  true  is  it,  as  a  wise  man  teaches  us,  that 

1  "  Controversies  are  never  determined ;  for  though  they 
be  amply  proposed,  they  are  scarce  at  all  handled,  they  do 
so  swell  with  unnecessary  Digressions ;  and  the  Paren- 
thesis on  the  party,  is  often  as  large  as  the  main  discourse 
upon  the  subject." — Religio  Medici. 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  39 

*  Doubt  of  any  sort  cannot  be  removed  except 
by  Action/  On  which  ground,  too,  let  him  who 
gropes  painfully  in  darkness  or  uncertain  light, 
and  prays  vehemently  that  the  dawn  may  ripen 
into  day,  lay  this  other  precept  well  to  heart  .  .  . 
'  Do  the  Duty  which  lies  nearest  thee,'  which  thou 
knowest  to  be  a  Duty!  Thy  second  Duty  will 
already  have  become  clearer." 

The  hour  of  Spiritual  Enfranchisement,  he  de- 
clares, is  even  this :  "  When  your  Ideal  World, 
wherein  the  whole  man  has  been  dimly  struggling 
and  inexpressibly  languishing  to  work,  becomes 
revealed  and  thrown  open;  and  you  discover,  with 
amazement  enough,  .  .  .  that  your  '  America 
is  here  or  nowhere/  " 

Among  the  men  and  women  composing  the 
West  London  Mission  you  find  a  common  centre 
of  Action,  a  point  round  which  revolves  the 
resistless  energy  and  the  driving  enthusiasm  of 
souls  visited  by  "  a  felt  indubitable  certainty  of 
Experience."  They  are  souls  in  action.  The 
vestments  of  ecclesiasticism  become  in  their  hands 
"bandages  for  the  bleeding  wounds  of  human- 
ity." The  ropes  of  the  belfry-tower  become  in 
their  hands  cords  of  brotherhood.  The  hours 
of  a  formal,  monotonous,  mechanical,  and  selfish 
devotion  become  in  their  lives  the  swift  and 
glorious  minutes  of  open  conflict  with  sin  and 
misery.  They  are  not  kneeling  in  churches,  but 
declaring  what  we  call  the  good  news  of  Girist 


40  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

in  the  streets  of  the  city  and  in  the  homes  of 
men.  It  is  their  business,  not  to  stand  waiting 
for  a  congregation,  but  to  go  into  the  highways 
and  byways  compelling  men  to  come  in.  Con- 
vinced that  a  soul  isolated  from  God  is  a  dead 
soul,  convinced  that  without  the  hope,  love,  and 
sweetness  of  Christ  no  life  can  emerge  into  the 
true  light  of  existence,  and  convinced  that  men 
can  only  be  won  to  a  longing  after  God  and  a 
realisation  of  the  grandeur  of  immortality,  by 
a  Christ-inspired  love  and  a  Christ-inspired  de- 
votion— they  make  of  their  religion  a  life  of 
service,  and  are  seekers  and  savers,  ministers  and 
apostles,  the  hounds  of  heaven  and  the  hands  of 
God. 

See  the  difference  between  a  Theology  and 
a  Mission.  Theology  makes  religion  difficult. 
Scarcely  a  lifetime  of  profoundest  study  suffices 
for  a  knowledge  of  this  science.  A  plain  man 
in  controversy  with  a  professional  theologian  is 
made  to  feel  an  abysmal  ignorance.  He  concludes 
that  religion  is  something  apart  from  common 
life,  a  matter  as  high  and  abstruse  as  mathematics 
or  chemistry,  a  thing  of  the  study,  a  thing  of 
long  words  and  interminable  volumes.  An  eccle- 
siasticism  founded  upon  this  science  of  theology 
(all  theologians  at  variance  with  one  another, 
and  theology  changing  its  dialect  with  every 
decade)  becomes  aloof  from  the  daily  life  of 
toiling  men.     It  may  be  subscribed  to  by  those 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  41 

who  cannot  think  for  themselves  and  by  those 
who  feel  themselves  lame  and  lost  without  the 
crutch  of  tradition  and  the  leading  hand  of 
authority;  but  it  can  never  awaken  the  enthusiasm 
of  democracy,  it  can  never  create  the  soul  of 
religion  in  the  homes  of  the  nations. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  Mission  makes  religion 
not  only  easy  to  be  understood,  but  so  visibly 
beautiful  and  divine  that  it  becomes  even  in  the 
eyes  of  the  simple  and  the  ignorant  a  thing  greatly 
to  be  desired,  a  blessing  to  be  received  at  whatever 
cost.  A  Mission  deals  with  life.  It  goes  among 
men  and  women  and  speaks  of  those  things  which 
touch  the  actual  existence  of  men  and  women. 
It  deals  with  the  heart  of  humanity,  with  its 
cares  and  sorrows,  its  temptations  and  weak- 
nesses, its  dejections  and  wretchedness,  its  hopes 
and  fears,  its  pain  and  anguish,  its  dulness  and 
monotony,  its  poverty  and  destitution,  its  toil, 
disappointments,  solitude,  and  inward  silence.  It 
is  at  home  with  mankind.  It  is  close  to  the  bosom 
of  mortality.  It  knows  how  hard  is  the  way  of 
life  for  the  multitude,  how  impossible  for  any  to 
escape  tragedy,  how  easy  for  the  best  to  fall,  how 
very  difficult,  but  how  very  possible,  for  the  worst 
to  climb.  Its  consolation  is  uttered  with  no  mis- 
giving, and  its  hope  shines  in  its  eyes  with  the 
conviction  of  "  a  felt  indubitable  certainty  of 
Experience."  It  knows.  It  is  sure.  For  all 
weakness,  there  is  strength;  for  all  grief,  there  is 


42  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

comfort;  for  all  monotony,  there  is  joy;  for  all 
anguish,  there  is  peace;  for  all  mourning  and 
lamentation,  there  is  hope.  Christ  is  the  Secret. 
In  Him  the  most  fallen  has  both  a  Saviour  and 
a  Lover.  To  Him  the  most  hopeless  and  de- 
spairing may  raise  eyes  certain  of  blessing.  With 
Him  the  weakest  may  walk  in  security  and 
strength. 

Simplicity — an  absolute  and  a  most  commend- 
ing simplicity — is  the  keynote  of  this  ministration. 
We  have  a  Father  in  Heaven.  Christ  came  into 
the  world  to  manifest  the  love  of  this  Father 
and  to  attract  all  men  to  the  highest  life  by  the 
beauty  of  His  character,  the  sweet  reasonableness 
of  His  wisdom,  and  by  the  revelation  of  His 
resurrection  from  the  dead.  Religion  is  based 
upon  love  of  God,  faith  in  Christ,  and  hope  of 
immortality.  Its  expression  is  service  to  hu- 
manity. 

Here  there  is  no  room  for  the  disputations  and 
intricacies  of  theology,  leading  nowhither.  The 
appeal  is  made  direct  to  the  heart.  Its  language 
is  composed  from  the  alphabet  of  experience.  Its 
logic  is  the  knowledge  of  common  men. 

And,  note  well,  the  chief  commendation  of  this 
active  Christianity  is  its  ministration.  Those  who 
seek  and  save  commend  religion  in  the  very  fact 
that  they  do  seek  and  save.  Instead  of  weighing 
theological  arguments,  the  common  man  and  the 
common  woman  feel  themselves  touched  by  the 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  43 

kindness  of  those  who  seek  them,  and  drawn  out 
of  themselves  by  the  magnetised  sympathy  and 
sweetness  of  those  who  save  them.  Religion  be- 
comes attractive.  It  ceases  to  be  a  speculation. 
Before  their  very  eyes  men  and  women  see 
Christianity  incarnate  and  beautiful  in  human 
form.  It  is  a  reality.  It  is  actual.  The  thing  is 
there,  in  the  flesh,  breathing  and  living,  regarding 
them  with  eyes  of  divine  kindness,  entreating 
them  with  words  of  purest  love,  holding  out  to 
them  hands  of  the  strongest  and  most  unselfish 
helpfulness.  They  do  not  have  to  decide  with 
their  reasons  whether  this  or  that  form  of  words 
is  right;  but  with  their  hearts,  open  to  all  the 
divinest  influences  acting  upon  human  nature, 
they  have  to  say  whether  this  kind,  helpful,  and 
ministering  thing  called  Christian  Religion  is 
beautiful,  and  good,  and  true. 

To  have  in  the  centre  of  London,  at  the  very 
heart  of  the  British  people,  an  army  for  God 
that  never  rests  from  its  conflict  with  evil  and 
never  ceases  to  pursue  the  unhappy  with  the 
love  of  Christ,  was  the  ambition  and  the  ideal 
of  Hugh  Price  Hughes.  He  brought  such  an 
army  into  existence  by  the  same  force  of  person- 
ality which  in  General  Booth  brought  the  Salva- 
tion Army  into  existence;  he  commanded  this 
army  throughout  his  life  with  brilliant  skill  and 
unsleeping  enthusiasm;  and  now  that  he  has 
passed  through  the  darkness  which  holds  Eternity 


44  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

from  our  human  gaze,  the  army  is  still  fighting 
and  still  pursuing,  still  proving  that  Christianity 
in  action  is  a  living  thing,  still  touching  life  at 
the  centre  of  the  metropolis  with  the  grace  of  the 
Spirit  and  the  beauty  of  love. 

In  the  pages  which  follow  I  endeavour  to 
reveal  in  the  region  of  narrative  something  of 
the  magic  work  accomplished  by  this  Mission. 
The  stories  compose  a  human  document  of  im- 
mense significance  to  religion,  to  politics,  and  to 
medical  science.  No  man  of  free  judgment  and 
honest  thought  can  read  these  histories  without 
acknowledging  the  sovran  force  of  religion  in 
the  life  of  an  individual.  They  prove  what  I 
ventured  to  assert  in  Twice-Born  Men,  that  re- 
ligion is  the  only  known  agent  whereby  a  man 
radically  bad  can  become  radically  good.  They 
demonstrate  that  where  Christianity  sets  itself 
to  change  the  heart,  results  follow  which  are 
impossible  to  science.  In  a  word,  they  introduce 
us  to  the  miracle. 

But  it  is  important  for  the  reader  to  bear  in 
mind  during  his  persual  of  these  narratives  that 
the  work  of  the  West  London  Mission  is  by  no 
means  fully  exhibited  in  my  chronicles  of  con- 
version. There  is  a  vast  field  of  activity  covered 
by  this  community  into  which  I  have  not  pene- 
trated for  the  purpose  of  my  book.  It  will  serve 
to  show  the  energy  of  Christianity  in  action  if 
I  give  in  this  place  some  brief  account  of  that 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  45 

activity,  some  faintest  adumbration  of  the  labours 
which  are  carried  on  by  this  Mission  in  its  crusade 
against  the  dangers,  temptations,  and  iniquities 
of  Central  London;  and  it  will  prevent  the  reader 
from  concluding  that  the  energies  of  the  Mission 
are  directed  into  only  one  channel  and  that  my 
narratives  of  conversion  represent  the  total  char- 
acter of  its  victories. 

The  heart  of  this  community  are  the  Sunday 
services  in  the  Lyceum  Theatre.  Not  only  does 
the  blood  of  activity  beat  from  this  heart  and 
pulsate  throughout  all  the  districts  of  middle 
London  where  the  Mission  is  at  work,  but  the 
congregations  of  three  and  four  thousand  people 
typify  the  nature  and  the  spirit  of  the  whole 
community.  It  is  a  community  built  upon  the 
sense  of  brotherhood,  freed  from  the  formalism 
of  a  caste  religion,  and  inspired  by  a  greater 
yearning  for  realism  than  by  a  dull  obedience 
to  traditionalism.  The  services  are  an  expression 
of  enthusiasm.  There  is  an  excellent  orchestra 
and  a  trained  choir  of  male  voices.  The  note 
of  the  worship  is  one  of  triumph.  You  cannot 
imagine  how  great  is  the  difference  between  the 
old,  dull,  miserable  monotony  of  formalism,  and 
the  brightness  and  joy  and  contagious  hopeful- 
ness of  these  services  in  a  theatre,  these  crowded 
services  of  hope,  confidence,  and  victory. 

Look  at  the  congregation,  and  you  will  see  how 
wide  is  the  appeal  made  by  this  crusading  Mission. 


46  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

People  of  every  class  and  degree  fill  the  theatre 
from  floor  to  ceiling.  It  is  as  if  a  net  had  been 
dipped  down  into  the  centre  of  London  and 
had  tumbled  streets-full  of  its  cosmopolitan  pop- 
ulation into  this  Sunday  theatre.  You  can  see 
rich  and  poor,  soldiers  and  sailors,  policemen 
and  postmen,  merchants  and  lawyers,  shopmen 
and  clerks,  typists  and  milliners,  workmen  and 
labourers.  It  is  a  microcosm,  like  the  secular 
theatre;  a  gathering  together  of  all  classes  into 
one  including  place — society  dividing  itself  into 
boxes,  stalls,  circles,  gallery,  and  pit;  all  the 
world  a  stage,  and  all  the  stage  a  theatre. 

The  man  who  conducts  these  strange  services 
and  draws  these  immense  congregations  is  an 
interesting  type  of  the  new  preacher  of  Chris- 
tianity. When  I  first  visited  the  Lyceum  services, 
some  year  or  two  ago,  I  judged  him  to  be  hard, 
precise,  lawyer-like — a  man  who  arranged  his 
arguments  too  mechanically,  uttered  them  too 
harshly  and  loudly,  used  gestures  too  angrily, 
and  gave  one  the  impression  of  a  solicitor  justify- 
ing an  absentee  God  in  the  police-court  of  an 
unimaginative  middle-class.  It  was  a  surprise  to 
me  when  I  made  his  acquaintance  to  find  that  he 
was  a  young  man,  a  man  of  quietest  voice  and 
gentlest  manner,  a  thoughtful  reader,  a  spiritual 
thinker,  and  the  very  last  man  in  the  world  to 
beat  a  drum  or  thump  a  tub.  I  misjudged  him, 
I  think,  because  distance  gave  me  a  quite  false 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  47 

idea  of  his  appearance,  and  because  the  vigour 
and  energy  of  his  preaching  on  that  occasion 
made  a  cloud  of  dust  about  the  true  nature  of 
his  spirit. 

Mr.  Ernest  Rattenbury,  this  preacher  of  the 
Lyceum,  is  a  man  conscious  of  world-movements, 
alive  to  the  progress  of  ideas,  enthusiastic  for 
social  reform,  impatient  of  injustice  and  abuse, 
and  firm  fixed  in  the  faith  that  the  centre  of 
human  life  is  the  Incarnation  and  that  without 
conversion  to  Christ  the  soul  of  humanity  must 
go  astray  and  grope  in  the  everlasting  darkness 
of  chaos  and  anarchy.  To  hear  what  he  has  to 
say  thousands  of  people  flock  every  Sunday  to 
the  Lyceum;  and  to  do  what  he  asks  them  hun- 
dreds of  people  go  from  the  Lyceum  into  the 
streets  of  London  with  renewed  confidence  and 
invigorated  strength.  He  takes  the  old  texts, 
uses  sometimes  the  ancient  phraseology,  and  sel- 
dom, so  far  as  my  experience  goes,  attempts  a 
restatement  of  the  Christian  thesis;  but  his  utter- 
ances are  marked  by  original  thought,  the  spirit  is 
fresh  and  interesting,  and  he  makes  religion  a 
real  thing,  touching  the  lives  of  men  and  women, 
moulding  the  destiny  of  the  nation,  and  uniting 
London  with  Heaven. 

He  stands  for  thinker  and  inspirer  of  the 
Mission,  its  Voice  in  the  centre  of  London,  its 
cry  to  the  people  of  the  great  city.  !And  in  some 
way,  and  that  a  most  important  way,  he  is  also 


48  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

a  part  of  the  Mission's  activity.  He  not  only 
inspires  the  workers  of  the  Mission  in  their 
superb  and  selfless  labour  in  the  streets,  he  not 
only  witnesses  to  the  presence  of  the  Mission 
in  Central  London,  but  in  his  preaching  he  also 
seeks  and  saves.  There  are  men  and  women 
every  week  in  those  vast  congregations  at  the 
Lyceum  who  are  unknown  to  the  workers,  and 
who  perhaps  never  join  the  Mission  at  all.  Some 
of  them  write  to  the  preacher,  some  of  them  call 
and  see  him.  They  represent  almost  every  class 
and  condition  in  London.  They  are  seekers  and 
inquirers. 

The  strangeness  of  a  religious  service  in  a 
theatre  has  perhaps  been  their  only  impulse  to 
the  Lyceum.  The  utterance  of  the  preacher  has 
revived  their  purest  memories  or  held  a  dreadful 
mirror  to  their  consciences.  They  write  to  him 
either  to  ask  for  advice  or  to  thank  him  for  a 
new  life.  Some  of  them  come  and  see  him  and 
tell  him  stories  which  have  caused  him  to  say 
that  the  London  sinner  is  the  most  interesting 
of  all  sinners.  In  this  way  does  the  preacher 
seek  and  save.  His  sermons  are  not  only  an 
inspiration  to  the  workers  and  members  of  the 
Mission,  they  are  nets  for  the  souls  of  men. 

A  very  large  body  of  the  congregation  is  drawn 
from  the  warehouses  and  shops  and  offices  of 
London.  The  reader  will  find  some  account  of 
these  people  in  the  narratives  which  follow;  but 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  49 

it  is  important  to  insist  in  this  place  upon  the 
beneficent  work  of  the  West  London  Mission  as 
it  affects  the  lives  of  this  very  important  and 
exposed  section  of  London  society.  Indeed,  al- 
though the  rescue  work  of  the  Mission  appeals 
more  dramatically  and  poignantly  to  one's  sym- 
pathy, I  doubt  if  any  part  of  its  activity  is  more 
useful  to  the  community  and  more  serviceable 
to  the  cause  of  religion  than  this  quiet,  unpic- 
turesque,  and  almost  commonplace  devotion  to 
the  shopman  and  clerk. 

Many  infidel  critics  of  Twice-Born  Men  en- 
deavoured to  make  light  of  the  stories  it  nar- 
rated in  a  general  scorn  and  contempt  for  the 
Salvation  Army.  One  of  the  journals  of  in- 
fidelity has  recently  attacked  me  as — if  I  re- 
member rightly — a  fatuous  person  who  writes 
about  what  he  does  not  understand  and  who 
would  make  Salvationists  of  all  mankind.  The 
truth  is,  however  fatuous  I  may  be,  that  I  would 
make  Salvationists  of  those  who  can  best  express 
themselves  only  in  that  way,  Methodists  of  those 
who  can  reach  their  highest  only  by  becoming 
Methodists,  and  Infidels  of  no  creature  under 
God's  sun,  neither  the  ox  nor  the  ass,  neither 
the  pig  nor  the  peacock,  neither  the  gnat  nor 
the  microbe — because  in  infidelity  there  is  the 
abyss  and  not  the  height,  darkness  and  not  light, 
nothingness  and  not  the  all-in-all.  The  object 
of  religion  is  to  find  expression  for  the  noblest 


50  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

aspirations  and  the  highest  powers  of  a  man, 
and  whatsoever  the  form  by  which  this  enfran- 
chisement of  the  soul  is  attained,  it  matters  not 
whether  it  is  aesthetically  the  best  or  socially 
the  most  aristocratic.  To  make  a  man  a  good 
man  is  the  heart  of  history  and  the  soul  of 
evolution;  and  as  in  man  there  is  an  infinite 
diversity  of  temperament,  so  we  must  look  for  an 
infinite  expression  of  the  religious  solicitude  for 
human  salvation.  But  what  I  desire  to  say  chiefly 
to  the  infidel  critic  of  Twice-Born  Men  touches 
upon  this  subject  of  the  West  London  Mission's 
work  among  the  shopmen  and  clerks  of  London. 
Is  it  a  good  thing,  or  is  it  a  bad  thing,  that 
an  influence  making  for  honesty,  purity,  and 
culture  should  be  at  work  among  young  men 
and  young  women,  the  circumstances  of  whose 
employment  expose  them  constantly  and  relent- 
lessly to  the  temptations  of  dishonesty,  impurity, 
and  the  most  vulgar  forms  of  hedonism?  Is  it 
better  that  these  young  people,  coming  into  the 
glare  and  excitement  of  London  from  the  monot- 
ony of  a  provincial  town,  should  be  cared  for 
morally  and  spiritually,  or  that  they  should  be 
left  to  take  their  chance  in  a  rabble  of  the  ugliest 
materialism  that  ever  degraded  the  human  race? 
If  my  critic  reply  that  they  must  take  their 
chance,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  him;  I 
must  leave  him  to  an  individualism  which  is 
reproached  with  inconsistency  by  every  police- 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  51 

man  and  school  inspector  he  encounters  in  the 
streets  of  his  city.  And  if  he  reply  that  they 
should  certainly  be  cared  for  and  safeguarded, 
I  ask  him  whether  he  can  name  any  agency  in 
civilisation  which  can  better  guard  and  befriend 
innocence  than  the  agency  of  religion.  And  if 
he  parry  the  question  with  millennial  references 
to  the  influence  of  culture,  ethics,  and  free  libra- 
ries, I  ask  him  this — But  when  a  man  has  fallen 
from  innocence,  when  the  pilgrim  has  become  the 
prodigal,  and  the  fighter  the  defeated,  what 
power,  what  agency,  what  aid  of  civilisation 
and  ethics  can  raise  him  up,  restore  his  man- 
hood, and  impel  him  towards  righteousness? 
And  the  woman  who  falls! — will  culture  give 
her  palingenesis,  will  ethics  lift  her  up,  is 
there  anything  in  civilisation  that  can  give  her 
the  sense  of  being  cleansed,  saved,  and  sanc- 
tified ? 

But  infidelity  is  in  truth  a  form  of  madness; 
it  is  an  obsession  which  argument  cannot  oust 
nor  ridicule  destroy;  one  wastes  time  in  com- 
mending religion  to  a  man  whose  mind  is  made 
up  that  organisation  is  cause  and  not  conse- 
quence of  life,  that  the  beauty  and  majesty  of 
the  universe  are  accidents,  and  that  a  fall  of 
meteoric  dust  to  our  cooling  globe  produced  the 
scent  of  the  rose,  the  song  of  the  lark,  the  leaves 
of  the  birch,  the  speed  of  the  horse,  the  strength 
of  the  lion,  and  the  soul  of  Shakespeare. 


52  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

I  have  only  referred  to  the  infidel,  that  the 
more  imaginative  reader  may  see  strikingly  the 
point  which  I  desire  to  make  concerning  the  work 
of  this  Mission  among  the  population  of  business 
houses.  Consider  how  exposed  to  temptation  of 
a  most  pressing  and  insistent  kind  are  these  young 
men  and  young  girls  who  come  up  from  the 
provinces  to  make  their  living  in  London.  They 
see  everywhere  frivolity,  gaiety,  carelessness,  and 
vice  in  its  finest  clothes.  They  are  tempted  to 
think  that  they  themselves  are  narrow,  straight- 
laced,  puritanical,  and  provincial.  They  are 
tempted  to  feel  in  themselves  a  galling  sense  of 
inferiority.  They  find  themselves  surrounded  by 
those  who  began  as  they  did  and  who  have  be- 
come one  of  the  crowd.  They  listen  to  con- 
versations which  amaze  them;  they  behold  sights 
which  fill  them  with  astonishment.  They  are 
subjected  to  rallying  ridicule  and  the  stinging 
chaff  of  a  worldliness  which  appears  manful. 
They  cannot  walk  in  the  streets  without  the 
sensation  of  a  most  tempting  iniquity. 

In  one  of  Mr.  Rattenbury's  sermons  he  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  young  man  tempted  by 
London  to  forget  the  purity  of  his  home  memories 
and  to  slough  the  principles  which  guided  his 
life  before  he  came  to  the  metropolis.  His  text 
was,  "  Take  not  Thy  Holy  Spirit  from  me  ";  and 
he  spoke  of  David's  agonising  realisation  that 
it  was  better  to  bear  the  undying  bitterness  of 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  5S 

remorse  for  a  dreadful  and  unpardonable  sin  than 
to  become  hardened,  indifferent,  and  soulless — 
"  Take  not  Thy  Holy  Spirit  from  me."  This 
was  his  appeal : — 

"I  want  to  ask  you,  Do  you  struggle  as  you  once  did? 
Are  you  lowering  your  ideals?  Do  you  acquiesce  with 
the  evil  you  once  fought  against?  Young  man,  when  you 
came  to  London  a  year  or  two  ago,  you  used  to  blush 
when  you  heard  certain  things — you  laugh  now.  That  is 
death.  It  means  the  sensitiveness  of  the  soul  has  become 
dulled,  and  the  things  that  once  shocked  you,  amuse  you. 
Young  man,  when  you  came  here  you  protested  against 
the  things  that  seemed  to  you  to  be  unjust  and  immoral 
and  mean  amongst  the  people  with  whom  you  worked; 
you  made  up  your  mind  you  would  not  soil  your  con- 
science, you  would  rather  lose  your  situation.  Are  your 
ideals  lower?  It  is  just  as  you  lower  those  ideals  that 
the  soul  shrinks  and  mortification  sets  in.  Young  man, 
you  had  high  and  lofty  ideals  of  service;  you  said  you 
would  not  live  for  yourself,  you  would  not  tolerate  a 
merely  selfish  life.  Are  you  living  for  others  to-day? 
Has  the  flag  been  lowered?    Has  the  ideal  been  lowered?  " 

Is  it  a  good  thing  or  is  it  a  bad  thing,  is  it  a 
highly  useful  and  most  essential  thing  or  a  matter 
of  mere  indifference,  that  there  should  be  in  the 
centre  of  London  this  influence  for  right  conduct 
and  pure  thinking  on  one  of  the  largest  sections 
of  the  community?  Is  it  a  good  thing  that  a 
clerk  should  be  honest,  sober,  clean-living,  and 
morally  helpful  to  society?  Is  it  a  good  thing 
that  a  shop-girl  should  be  virtuous,  pure,  and 
ambitious  of  a  sanctified  maternity?    Or  does  it 


54  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

not  matter  at  all  what  they  are? — would  it  be 
just  as  well  with  London  if  the  influence  of 
religion  were  entirely  removed  and  the  whole 
community  were  given  over  to  dissipation,  self- 
assertion,  and  a  reckless  animalism? 

Most  important,  I  think,  is  this  particular 
sphere  of  the  West  London  Mission's  activity; 
and  if  it  existed  alone  for  this  purpose,  it  would 
deserve  the  earnest  support  of  all  serious  and 
reflecting  people.  But,  after  all,  this  is  but  one 
expression  of  the  Mission's  energy.  It  sends  a 
Sister  to  walk  the  midnight  streets  of  Piccadilly 
and  Regent  Street — the  kindest,  purest,  sweetest, 
and  yet  the  most  practical  and  unsentimental  of 
women — who  has  saved  hundreds  of  wretched 
girls  from  the  most  abysmal  depths  of  degrada- 
tion. It  sends  preachers  to  state  the  truth  of 
Christianity  against  the  infidel  lecturers  in  Hyde 
Park.  It  has  a  Sisterhood  which  concerns  itself 
with  vigilance  work  and  temperance  work.  It 
has  a  hospital  for  the  dying  poor,  a  creche  for  the 
children  of  toiling  mothers,  a  home  for  rescued 
women.  It  has  a  guild  for  helping  cripples,  a 
labour  bureau  for  the  unemployed,  and  a  society 
for  promoting  thrift.  It  has  clubs  and  institutes 
and  classes  for  men  and  boys,  women  and  girls. 
It  has  a  body  of  trained  nurses  who  tend  the  sick 
in  their  own  homes,  solicitors  who  give  advice 
to  poor  people,  missioners,  both  men  and  women, 
who  hold  religious  services  in  the  open  streets, 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  55 

and  Sisters  who  visit  the  work-houses,  the  lodg- 
ing-houses, and  the  cellars  and  garrets  of  appal- 
ling slums.  In  a  word,  nothing  that  love  can 
do  and  religion  inspire  for  the  sorrowful  and 
sinful,  the  hard  of  heart,  and  the  destitute  poor 
is  left  undone  by  this  little  community  of  Chris- 
tian souls. 

There  is  room  enough  in  London,  Heaven 
knows,  for  Churches,  Chapels,  Salvation  Armies, 
and  Missions ;  there  can  never  be  too  many  people 
inspired  by  enthusiasm  for  the  Character  and 
Idea  of  Christ  working  on  the  side  of  sweetness 
and  light,  righteousness  and  grandeur  in  the 
frightful  mass  and  hideous  congestion  of  the 
great  city.  Men  whom  the  Bishop  of  London 
cannot  reach  are  saved  by  General  Booth;  men 
whom  General  Booth  cannot  reach  are  saved  by 
the  Bishop  of  London;  and  the  Bishop  of  London, 
General  Booth,  Ernest  Rattenbury,  and  all  other 
genuine,  true-ringing,  and  fierce-working  seekers 
and  savers  belong  to  one  Master,  whom  it  is  the 
business  of  humanity  to  serve  rather  than  define, 
to  love  rather  than  to  quarrel  over.  The  just 
man  will  not  separate  the  various  agencies  for 
good  in  London,  and  differentiate  between  them 
as  to  their  methods  and  forms;  he  will  give  his 
sympathy  and  his  support  to  every  awake  and 
enthusiastic  society  which  is  making  for  right- 
eousness at  the  heart  of  the  British  Empire. 

All  these  societies,  but  the  West  London  Mis- 


56  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

sion  in  particular,  are  confronted  by  one  most 
insidious  and  deadly  form  of  opposition. 

The  great  obstacle  in  their  path  is  the  mountain- 
ous luxury  and  ostentation  of  central  London, 
which  at  every  point  obstructs  their  progress  and 
hinders  their  conquest. 

On  this  subject  it  is  necessary  to  say  a  few 
words,  with  which  one  may  appropriately  close 
this  brief  description  of  mission  work  in  the 
metropolis  of  civilisation. 

In  The  Soul  of  a  Christian,  Professor  Granger 
says  some  disparaging  things  about  the  excite- 
ment and  contagious  hysteria  of  revival  meetings. 
The  methods  of  the  revivalist,  he  declares,  "  are 
cleverly  calculated  to  throw  the  soul  off  its  balance 
and  to  seize  it  in  its  moment  of  humiliating 
weakness.  There  is  an  unholy  art  of  forcing 
the  pace  of  the  soul  as  it  draws  near  to  God; 
for  which  purpose  it  is  necessary  to  produce  that 
unnatural  excitement  in  which  the  soul  is  at  the 
mercy  of  the  passing  impulse.  .  .  .  This  exag- 
gerated excitability  which  is  characteristic  of 
neurasthenia,  is  therefore  closely  associated  with 
that  loss  of  complete  control  which  is  found  to 
be  an  essential  element  in  all  hypnotic  phenomena. 
.  .  .  These  strange  accompaniments  of  religious 
fervour  seem  partly  original,  springing  from 
over-excitement  and  hysteria;  partly  imitative, 
the  report  of  such  things  tending  in  some  minds 
to  suggest  imitation.   .    .    .   This  latter  form  of 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  57 

excitement  (when  human  beings  are  assembled 
in  a  crowd)  may  be  traced  under  the  heads  of 
contagion  of  feeling  and  hypnotic  suggestion. 
.  .  .  The  presence  of  a  large  number  of  human 
beings  together  in  one  place  produces  certain 
physical  effects,  among  which  is  a  certain  tend- 
ency to  receive  suggestions." 

Now  it  is  easy  enough  for  a  critic  of  religious 
fervour  and  missionary  zeal  to  suggest  that  the 
methods  of  the  revivalist  are  "  cleverly  calcu- 
lated," and  that  a  contagion  of  feeling  is  re- 
sponsible for  excitement,  and  that  excitement 
produces  the  hysteria  of  spiritual  upheaval.  The 
same  critic,  however,  if  he  attended  a  street- 
corner  service  in  Drury  Lane,  held  opposite  a 
tavern  and  in  the  midst  of  the  depression  of 
a  disgustful  destitution,  would  certainly  find  it 
difficult  to  create  an  atmosphere  of  any  excite- 
ment or  enthusiasm.  But  what  he  says  is  no 
doubt  generally  true  of  certain  revival  meetings, 
and  might  as  truly  be  applied  to  political  meet- 
ings, or  any  other  gathering  of  men  where  the 
feelings  are  deeply  stirred.  There  is,  unques- 
tionably, a  contagion  of  feeling  and  hypnotic 
suggestion.  But  it  is  not  confined  to  particular 
assemblages  of  men. 

It  is  a  matter  of  the  first  magnitude  to  recog- 
nise that  the  tone  of  social  life,  the  standard 
of  public  opinion,  the  quality  of  manners,  the 
set  and  tide  of  national  existence,  even  the  amuse- 


58  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

ments,  diversions,  and  fashions  of  society,  spread 
a  contagion  of  feeling  and  induce  an  hypnotic 
suggestion.  There  is  a  contagion  of  Regent 
Street  and  an  hypnotic  suggestion  of  Hyde  Park. 
One  is  conscious  of  a  contagion  in  London  which 
is  quite  different  from  the  contagion  of  a  country 
garden;  the  soul  cannot  feel  itself  in  the  same 
attitude  towards  God  in  the  one  place  as  in  the 
other :  there  is  a  different  atmosphere,  a  different 
contagion,  a  different  suggestion.  Therefore 
when  the  man  of  the  world  says  that  spiritual 
upheaval  is  produced  by  the  emotional  at- 
mosphere of  a  religious  meeting,  the  religious 
may  retort  upon  him  that  his  own  spiritual  dead- 
ness  is  produced  by  the  contagion  of  feeling  and 
hypnotic  suggestion  of  the  godless,  unimagina- 
tive, and  vulgar  hedonism  which  surrounds  him. 
But  it  is  not  to  retaliate  upon  the  critic  of  re- 
ligious fervour  that  I  insist  upon  this  contagion 
of  feeling  and  hypnotic  suggestion  everywhere 
acting  upon  the  souls  of  men;  it  is  to  emphasise 
the  solemn  responsibility  of  the  individual  to  the 
community,  to  show  the  necessity  for  a  reforma- 
tion of  social  life,  and  to  point  out  how  difficult 
and  hard  is  the  work  of  the  Christian  missionary 
in  London,  surrounded  as  he  is  on  every  side  by 
the  luxury  and  ostentation  of  a  voluptuous 
plutocracy. 

No  man  can  truly  say  that  the  contagion  of 
society  is  a  religious  contagion,  or  that  the  hyp- 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  59 

notic  suggestion  of  London  streets  is  a  religious 
suggestion.  A  visitor  to  England  from  India 
or  China,  whose  purpose  was  to  study  the  fol- 
lowers of  the  Son  of  God  at  the  centre  of  their 
national  life,  would  surely  feel  himself,  in  the 
streets  of  London,  to  be  the  victim  of  an  im- 
mense hallucination.  It  would  be  impossible  for 
him  to  believe  that  London  in  any  way  expressed 
the  mind  of  Christ;  it  would  not  be  impossible 
for  him  to  think  that  it  represented  the  ideas 
of  a  nation  devoted  to  Baal  or  Astarte.  He  would 
see  on  every  side  of  him  an  ostentation  of  wealth 
bewildering  in  its  profusion  and  staggering  in 
its  effrontery.  He  would  find  it  impossible  to 
distinguish  the  lady  of  fashion  from  the  public 
women  of  the  streets.  He  would  see  in  the 
shop-windows  the  manifold  productions  of  a 
commerce  created  by  vanity,  voluptuousness,  and 
sensuality.  The  hoardings  would  shock  his  mod- 
esty by  their  prurience,  or  disgust  his  intellect  by 
their  vulgarity.  He  would  feel  himself  to  be 
the  witness  of  a  carousal.  It  would  seem  to  him 
that  every  unit  in  the  multitude  was  dressed  to 
attract  attention,  was  bent  upon  self-indulgence, 
had  no  purpose  in  life  save  dissipation,  acknowl- 
edged no  responsibility  towards  his  fellow-men, 
lived  without  a  thought  of  God — his,  or  any- 
body's. He  would  look  for  self-sacrifice,  and  he 
would  see  self-assertion;  for  modesty,  and  he 
would  see  immodesty;  for  humility,  and  he  would 


60  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

see  arrogance;  for  gentleness,  and  he  would  see 
audacity;  for  meekness,  and  he  would  see  vanity; 
for  reticence,  and  he  would  see  effrontery;  for 
service,  and  he  would  see  idleness.  Instead  of 
the  Christian  he  would  see  the  Sybarite;  instead 
of  the  disciples,  the  swine  of  Epicurus;  instead 
of  sisters  of  mercy,  the  daughters  of  Messalina. 
It  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  effect  of  Lon- 
don's central  streets  upon  the  mind  of  such  a 
man. 

It  is  in  such  an  environment,  exposed  to  its 
contagion  and  suggestion,  that  the  people  live 
whom  the  West  London  Mission  seeks  to  save. 
On  every  side  of  them  is  the  parade  and  display 
of  wealth.  They  see  with  their  eyes  and  feel 
with  their  souls  the  allurements  and  enticements 
of  luxurious  existence.  Any  such  ideal  as  Chris- 
tianity must  seem  to  them  a  phantasy — so  real, 
visible,  tangible,  and  prosperous  is  the  presence 
of  Mammon.  There  is  nowhere  a  reproach  for 
the  vain,  a  rebuke  for  the  vulgar,  a  condemna- 
tion for  the  selfish.  The  pageant  of  worldliness 
passes  continually  before  their  eyes  in  unbroken 
triumph.  Life  is  there.  To  be  rich  is  the  supreme 
blessing.  Every  one  is  seeking  a  single  goal — a 
material  enjoyment  of  existence,  an  assertion  of 

self. 

Now,  this  hypnotic  suggestion  of  the  streets, 
this  "  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain '  is 
infinitely  more  potent  for  evil  than  the  sugges- 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  61 

tion  and  contagion  of  a  religious  meeting  for 
hysteria.  It  is  normal.  It  is  perpetual.  It  is  a 
form  of  suggestion  so  subtle  and  disguised,  it 
appears  so  natural  and  commonplace,  that  no 
psychologist  takes  the  trouble  to  diagnose  it,  and 
no  religious  teacher  feels  himself  moved  to  de- 
nounce it.  Indeed,  it  passes  not  only  unchal- 
lenged, but  undetected.  It  is  not  recognised  as 
hypnotic  suggestion.  And  yet  there  is  in  the 
world  no  contagion  more  undoubtedly  the  work 
of  suggestion,  and  no  hypnotic  suggestion  which 
makes  more  disastrously  for  vulgarity  of  mind, 
corruption  of  taste,  compromising  morality,  and 
deadness  of  soul,  than  this  normal,  usual,  and 
ubiquitous  influence  of  the  public  streets. 

This  miasma  of  London  is  made  by  the 
thoughts  of  the  units  composing  its  multitude. 
The  moral  atmosphere  of  a  place  is  produced 
by  the  soliloquies  of  the  soul.  It  is  not  the  diverse 
purposes,  but  the  diverse  thoughts  of  men  which 
make  the  difference  in  the  atmosphere  of  church 
and  tavern.  A  flourishing  tavern  in  the  pros- 
perous quarter  of  the  town  has  a  quite  different 
atmosphere  from  the  beershop  of  miserable 
wretches  in  the  slums;  a  fashionable  church  pos- 
sesses an  atmosphere  wholly  different  from  that 
of  a  little  country  church  where  worship  is  sin- 
cere and  religion  is  truly  felt  to  be  "  the  poetry 
of  the  heart."  Enter  any  of  these  buildings, 
churches,  or  taverns,  when  they  are  empty,  and 


W  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

the  atmosphere  of  each  is  identical.  Are  we  not 
conscious  of  a  different  air  in  the  same  church 
at  Communion,  at  morning  prayer,  at  even-song, 
at  a  funeral? 

Every  individual  is  in  some  way  responsible 
for  the  hypnotic  suggestion  of  the  streets.  A 
woman  may  be  perfectly  virtuous,  and  yet  by  the 
vanity  of  her  mind,  expressing  itself  in  her  gar- 
ments, may  intensify  the  hypnotic  suggestion  of 
sensuality.  One  cannot  oppose  the  contagion  of 
feeling  in  London,  unless  the  soul  is  definitely 
pure.  Unless  one  is  definitely  pure  it  is  quite 
possible  to  convey  the  idea  of  impurity.1  There- 
fore it  is  a  solemn  duty  for  those  who  desire 
to  be  on  the  side  of  beauty,  nobility,  righteous- 
ness, and  spirituality  to  see  that  in  no  chamber 
of  their  thoughts,  in  no  fashion  of  their  garments, 
in  no  department  of  their  manners  do  they  con- 
tribute any  power  to  the  general  atmosphere  of 
materialism.  There  is  great  need  for  a  clean 
division  between  good  and  evil.  It  is  not  an 
exaggeration  to  say  that  unselfishness  makes  no 
effect  on  the  London  streets.  Decency  does, 
respectability  does,  and  in  a  certain  degree 
courtesy  does;  but  the  great  note  of  Christianity 
— selflessness — makes  no  sound  in  the  symphony 


i  <« 


The  power  of  evil  may  be  exercised  by  simple  in- 
dolence and  negligence,  while  the  good  can  only  be  accom- 
plished by  some  amount  of  exertion  and  sacrifice."— 
Connop  Thirlwall. 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  63 

of  the  public  streets.  Is  it  a  great  thing  to 
expect  that  every  man  and  woman  in  London 
whose  life  has  been  touched  and  exalted  by  the 
Character  of  Christ  should  by  the  simplicity  of 
their  dress,  the  beauty  of  their  manners,  and 
the  nobility  of  their  pursuits,  convey  an  impres- 
sion to  the  streets  which  is  at  once  a  reproach 
to  vanity  and  an  invitation  to  holiness? 

Certain  it  is  that  the  present  wholesale  material- 
ism of  society  makes  an  atmosphere  of  central 
London  in  which  it  is  hard,  very  hard  indeed, 
for  the  apostles  of  Christ  to  do  their  work.  If 
more  people  with  means  and  leisure  could  be 
seen  helping  the  sad  and  saving  the  lost;  if 
instead  of  one  Sister  on  the  midnight  streets 
there  were  hundreds  of  good  women  pleading 
with  the  fallen;  if  at  every  turn  and  corner  one 
found  the  doors  of  houses  and  institutions  thrown 
open  for  the  work  of  Christ;  if — not  now  and 
then,  but  continually — there  was  a  universal  hos- 
pitality practised  by  the  rich  towards  the  poor, 
a  universal  effort  on  the  part  of  rich  men  to 
help  poor  men,  and  rich  women  to  help  poor 
women;  if,  in  brief,  wherever  one  went  in  central 
London  one  saw,  as  one  sees  a  city  set  on  a  hill, 
the  life-work  of  a  vast  multitude  consecrated  to 
the  service  of  Christ — how  infinitely  easier  it 
would  be  to  combat  materialism,  to  destroy  vul- 
garity, and  to  attract  the  sad  and  sorrowful  to 
religion. 


64  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

Is  it  not  high  time  that  the  Church  awoke  to 
the  tremendous  power  of  hypnotic  suggestion, 
and  made  definite  war  upon  the  extreme  luxury, 
license,  and  gaudery  of  society  which  are  now 
spreading  through  the  streets  of  the  town  a 
contagion  terribly  destructive  to  the  noblest  vir- 
tues of  the  human  soul?  There  is  a  character 
in  one  of  Anatole  France's  novels  whose  nature 
is  defined  as  "  double-faced  by  courtesy."  It  does 
not  do  for  the  visible  embodiment  of  Christ  to 
be  double-faced  even  from  motives  of  charity. 
I  believe  that  the  complacency  of  the  Church 
towards  the  materialism  of  the  upper  classes  and 
the  vulgarity  of  the  middle-classes,  is  more  fatal 
to  the  progress  of  Christianity,  more  fatal  to  a 
true  understanding  of  religion  by  the  soul  of  the 
nation,  than  all  the  devices  and  bewitchments  of 
evil.  To  confuse  good  and  evil,  to  smudge  the 
lines  of  selfishness  and  unselfishness,  to  attempt 
to  serve  God  and  Mammon, — this  is  not  merely 
to  vulgarise  religion,  it  is  to  tamper  with  the 
Soul  of  Christ.1 

"  One  of  the  reasons,"  says  Professor  Granger, 
"  why  popular  religion  in  England  seems  to  be 
coming  to  the  limits  of  its  power,  is  that  it  has 
contented  itself  so  largely  with  the  commonplace 
motives  which,  after  all,  find  sufficient  exercise 
in  the  ordinary  duties  of  life.  Unless  God  is 
presented  under  the  attributes  of  the  divine 
1  See  Note  C  at  end  of  book. 


SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS  65 

majesty,  in  such  a  way  as  to  summon  forth  a 
heroic  effort  of  the  soul  to  come  to  its  own  in 
Him,  religion  is  degraded  to  a  level  below  the 
ordinary  standard  of  honour,  and  does  not  appeal 
to  the  high  spirit  which  is  the  natural  temper  of 
a  free  citizen  in  a  free  state.  When  religion  is 
represented  as  the  most  refined  way  of  providing 
for  the  ultimate  future,  and  a  not  unprofitable 
investment  for  the  present,  it  is  classed  on  its 
own  showing  with  the  business  pursuits,  which 
even  those  who  are  engaged  in  them  treat,  not 
as  ends  in  themselves,  but  as  means.  Yet,  unless 
the  divine  ideal  is  presented  as  an  object  of  desire 
in  and  for  itself,  because  of  its  intrinsic  beauty 
and  authority,  it  is  no  longer  completely  effective. 
The  God  of  Calvin  may  have  been  an  ideal  which 
was  effective  in  producing  a  moral  renovation, 
but  it  is  permitted  to  doubt  whether  such  an  ideal 
ever  inspired  that  disinterested  passion  of  love, 
which  is  the  highest  form  of  the  soul's  com- 
munion with  God.  '  He  moves  the  world/  says 
Aristotle,  '  as  the  object  of  its  desire.'  " 

One  cannot  look  for  the  new  understanding 
of  religion  to  seize  and  possess  the  imagination 
of  the  world  until  the  Church  has  everywhere 
ceased  to  be  equivocal  and  double-faced,  until 
the  demarcation  between  selfishness  and  unselfish- 
ness is  positive  and  unswerving,  until  trifling  with 
Christianity  is  as  sternly  denounced  as  trifling 
with  immorality,  until  the  children  of  God  be- 


66  SEEKERS  AND  SAVERS 

come  clean  separate  from  the  children  of  Mam- 
mon, and  until  the  commandment  receives  the  un- 
compromising insistence  of  the  whole  Church 
throughout  the  world — that  love  for  God  can 
only  be  expressed  by  service  to  humanity. 

"  In  acknowledgment  of  what  Christ  hath  done 
and  suffered,  take  up  this  resolution :  that  it  shall 
be  better  for  every  one  with  whom  thou  hast  to 
do,  because  Christ  hath  died  for  thee  and  him." 

"The  beggar's  rags  fluttering  in  air 
Do  to  rags  the  heavens  tear; 

.  .  .  .  • 

The  harlot's  cry  from  street  to  street 
Shall  weave  old  England's  winding  sheet; 
The  winner's  shout,  the  loser's  curse, 
Shall  dance  before  dead  England's  hearse. 

*  m  •  •  * 

Every  night  and  every  morn 
Some  to  misery  are  born; 
Every  morn  and  every  night 
Some  are  born  to  sweet  delight. 

*  •  •  •  * 

I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 
Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 
In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land." 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

HE  stood  with  the  others,  watching  her  die 
— his  mother,  to  whom  he  was  most 
deeply  devoted.  The  end  was  coming 
without  pain.  She  let  her  gaze  wander  lovingly 
and  lingeringly  from  one  to  the  other  of  her  seven 
children,  and  held  in  a  tender  embrace  the  hand 
of  her  kneeling  husband,  beginning  to  shed  the 
first  tears  of  his  widowerhood.  She  was  calm 
and  peaceful.  There  was  distress  neither  for  her 
body  nor  for  her  spirit.  She  was  fading  out 
of  life  with  a  gracious  compassion  and  a  sweet 
anxiety  for  those  whom  she  was  leaving  upon 
the  earth. 

Her  eyes  closed,  and,  in  a  low  voice  muffled 
by  the  falling  shadow  of  death,  she  began  to 
pray.  Earnestly  and  with  an  infinite  solicitude 
she  besought  the  Father  of  humanity  to  have 
her  children  for  ever  in  His  care,  to  guard  them, 
to  shield  them,  to  protect  them,  to  keep  them  in 
purity  and  goodness,  so  that  at  the  end  they  might 
all  meet  in  heaven,  united  after  the  battle  of  life 
in  that  happy  kingdom  of  His  love  where  there 
are  no  more  sorrows,  no  more  partings,  no  more 
tears. 

67 


68  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

He  was  a  youth  who  had  never  before  seen 
this  awful  and  appalling  thing  called  death.  His 
soul  was  shaken  by  it.  All  the  agony  of  his  heart 
for  the  loss  of  a  most  tender  and  befriending 
mother,  all  the  anguish  of  pathos  which  her  whis- 
pered prayer  created  in  his  soul,  all  the  tragic 
and  desolating  sense  of  impending  disaster  which 
hung  like  a  darkness  in  his  brain,  yielded  and 
gave  way  before  the  one  black,  overshadowing 
sensation  of  Death  in  the  room,  implacable  Death 
close  to  him,  invisible,  but  felt  in  every  vein  of 
his  body.  How  terrible  to  die !  How  ghastly  to 
sink  out  of  existence!  How  awful  to  feel  the 
darkness  falling  and  the  heart  beating  to  its  end ! 
This  thing  called  Death  made  life  unutterably 
tragic,  inexpressibly  dreadful.  How  lonely  it 
was !  How  isolated  from  the  reach  of  love !  Into 
the  darkness,  into  the  silence,  into  the  mystery — 
alone ! 

Many  times  since  that  day  of  tears  he  has 
recalled  the  memory  of  his  mother's  dying  prayer, 
and  ever  to  the  end  of  his  life  the  remembrance 
of  that  hour  will  be  like  a  strong  angel  in  his 
soul.  In  some  ways  that  hour  and  that  prayer 
stand  in  his  destiny  for  the  first  motion  of  the 
outstretching  and  saving  hand  of  God. 

Life  looked  at  him  with  other  eyes  after  his 
mother's  death.  He  was  emerging  from  boy- 
hood. He  was  conscious  of  a  new  dawn  in  his 
soul.     The  restraints  and  safeguards  which  had 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE  69 

surrounded  him  on  every  side  from  his  earliest 
childhood  began  to  chafe  him,  began  to  appear 
as  sensible  barriers  and  obstructions  to  some- 
thing in  his  will  which  increasingly  he  felt  he 
must  express  or  go  mad  with  aggravation. 

He  did  not  actually  lose  his  faith — perhaps 
that  faith  had  never  been  clearly  visualised  and 
profoundly  felt — but  he  began  to  experience  an 
impatience  of  religious  exercises  and  to  feel  him- 
self irritated  beyond  the  line  of  endurance  by 
the  drill  and  mechanic  monotony  of  an  obliga- 
tory worship.  From  childhood  he  had  been 
schooled  in  the  severities  of  a  faith  which  multi- 
plied the  enormities  of  humanity,  decalogued 
almost  every  harmless  amusement  and  diversion 
of  the  human  race,  and  presented  the  resting- 
places  of  heaven  rather  as  rewards  for  denials 
and  suppressions  than  as  victories  for  aspiration 
and  achievement. 

To  the  young  man,  longing  for  expression,  and 
hungering  after  a  larger  life  than  he  had  yet 
known,  the  motherless  home  grew  more  and  more 
too  narrow,  too  suffocating,  and  too  mean.  He 
began  to  show  his  spirit.  Let  the  others  sit  by 
the  winter  fire  reading  the  Bible,  singing  hymns, 
and  saying  Amen  to  their  father's  prayers,  but 
he  would  speak  what  he  felt.  Let  them  go  reg- 
ularly to  chapel  and  school,  to  class-meetings  and 
temperance  gatherings,  but  he  would  let  them 
know  what  he  thought.    In  boyhood  it  had  been 


70  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

his  desire,  and  the  hope  of  all  the  others,  that 
one  day  he  would  enter  the  ministry  and  preach 
the  good  news  of  Christianity;  but — when  he  was 
a  child  he  had  thought  as  a  child.  Now,  with  the 
blood  of  manhood  singing  in  his  veins  and  all 
the  pulses  of  his  being  beating  high  for  action, 
he  longed  only  to  leave  this  little  Bible-reading 
home  and  feel  the  winds  of  the  world  in  his  eyes. 

He  told  his  father  that  he  was  too  tired  to 
go  twice  on  Sunday  to  the  school;  and  after  the 
prayer-meeting  which  followed  the  evening  serv- 
ice in  the  chapel,  and  which  he  found  intermina- 
bly wearisome,  he  would  criticise  the  minister 
and  find  open  fault  with  the  sermon.  To  these 
portents  of  danger  the  father  was  blind;  he  re- 
garded the  boy  only  as  a  little  headstrong,  and 
opposed  his  rebellion  merely  with  the  weight  of 
parental  authority.  Whether  the  boy  liked  it  or 
not,  he  was  to  go  to  these  services  with  the  others 
— apparently  he  stood  more  in  need  of  them  than 
his  sisters  and  brothers. 

But  the  day  of  deliverance  was  at  hand.  He 
was  to  become  his  own  master,  to  feel  no  longer 
the  irritation  of  goading  checks  and  the  stifling 
oppression  of  home  discipline.  A  situation  had 
been  found  for  him  in  a  country  town,  a  town 
larger  than  that  in  which  his  childhood  and  boy- 
hood had  passed  so  uneventfully  and  so  monot- 
onously. "  How  radiant  I  was,"  he  says,  "  when 
I  knew  that  I  was  going  to  be  able  to  have  my 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE  71 

fling  a  little! "  By  this  he  does  not  mean  that 
he  was  jumping  forward  to  temptation,  that  he 
was  springing  with  all  the  zest  in  his  nature 
towards  the  opportunities  for  sin.  He  had  a 
horror  of  evil.  He  regarded  dissipation  and  vice 
with  an  extreme  disapproval.  For  anything 
really  wicked,  and  really  base,  and  really  vile,  he 
felt  nothing  but  repugnance.  No;  he  was  strain- 
ing at  the  leash,  because  it  was  a  leash.  His 
desire  was  not  so  much  to  escape  as  not  to  be 
held.  He  wanted  to  be  free.  He  wanted  to 
have  his  will  no  longer  thwarted  and  his  life  no 
longer  ordered  and  mapped  by  another.  He 
wanted  to  feel  himself  truly  himself,  himself 
utterly  and  completely,  not  another. 

The  parting  from  home  somewhat  sobered  this 
ecstasy.  "  My  father,"  he  says,  "  came  with  me 
to  the  railway-station.  I  did  not  feel  in  the  least 
sorry  that  I  was  leaving  home  as  we  walked 
together  up  the  platform.  But  just  as  the  time 
came  for  the  train  to  move  my  father  took  me 
by  the  shoulder,  and,  with  one  arm  round  my 
neck,  gave  me  that  kiss  which  I  shall  never 
forget.  '  Goodbye,  my  lad,'  he  said,  looking  at 
me;  'be  sure  you  read  your  Bible  and  say  your 
prayers.'  As  the  train  moved  away  I  had  the 
sensation  of  leaving  something  which  I  should 
never  find  again.  I  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the 
carriage  and  began  to  think.  That  night,  I  re- 
member well,  I  did  say  my  prayers  and  I  did 


n  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

read  my  Bible;  and  when  the  light  was  out,  and 
I  lay  waiting  for  sleep,  I  had  a  vision  of  home 
and  all  the  past  of  my  life  which  was  so  real  and 
wonderful  that  I  can  recall  it  now.  I  must  admit 
that  the  first  night  away  from  home  I  sobbed 
myself  to  sleep." 

He  found  it  was  good  to  be  free.  The  shop 
in  which  he  served  was  a  small  one,  the  duties 
were  easily  learned,  he  was  able  to  go  out  into 
the  streets  and  feel  himself  his  own  master.  He 
went  to  a  chapel,  he  attended  various  meetings, 
occasionally  he  said  his  prayers,  and  sometimes, 
but  very  rarely,  he  remembered  his  father's  words 
and  read  his  Bible.  All  about  him  was  the  stir 
and  movement  of  a  town  larger  than  he  had 
yet  known.  He  felt  the  inspiration  of  this  active 
and  manifold  life.  He  began  to  think  seriously 
of  making  his  way  to  fortune.  It  was  better  than 
going  to  chapel,  to  read  the  newspapers;  cer- 
tainly, far  better  to  fall  asleep  dreaming  of  suc- 
cess than  to  lie  sobbing  with  thoughts  of  home. 

After  but  a  few  months  in  this  inspiring 
atmosphere  he  moved  to  a  still  larger  town,  and 
found  himself  one  among  many  in  a  considerable 
house  of  business.  Hitherto  he  had  kept  the 
faith.  Hitherto  the  promise  to  his  father  and 
the  dying  benediction  of  his  mother  had  been  at 
least  occasionally  present  and  sacred  in  his  soul. 
He  had  never  wholly  abandoned  going  to  re- 
ligious services,  saying  his  prayers,  and  reading 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE  73 

his  Bible.  There  had  always  been  present  in  his 
mind  the  feeling  of  a  struggle  and  an  effort,  the 
sense  of  a  Christian  endeavouring  to  fulfil  the 
duties  of  his  calling.  He  was  typical  of  all  youths 
who  go  straight  from  the  influence  of  a  too 
mechanic  Christianity  into  the  freedom  and  temp- 
tation of  a  quite  new  environment.  The  very 
severity  of  his  training  prevented  him  from 
altogether  forgetting  the  idea  of  religion,  while 
more  and  more  the  feeling  of  freedom  encouraged 
him  to  regard  with  an  almost  amused  amazement 
the  apparent  intolerance  and  narrowness  of  the 
cage  from  which  he  had  escaped. 

In  his  new  situation  he  came  face  to  face  with 
sin.  There  was  none  of  the  reticences  of  a  small 
town  in  the  crowded  streets  of  this  industrial 
centre.  There  was  no  feeling  of  public  opinion 
in  its  atmosphere.  Self-assertion  and  a  daring 
recklessness  characterised  the  aspects  of  the  fash- 
ionable streets.  Everybody  appeared  boldly  vain 
and  unashamedly  selfish.  It  was  a  flowing  tide 
of  careless  self-seeking,  a  carnival  of  Vanity 
Fair.  To  mix  in  the  crowd  was  to  lose  all  sense 
of  the  ancient  restraints  and  ennobling  suppres- 
sions of  humanity.  He  felt  himself  one  of  a 
great  multitude  borne  away  on  a  tide  of  festival. 

Six  men  of  about  his  own  age  shared  the  room 
in  which  he  slept.  They  varied  in  temperament, 
and  their  upbringings  had  been  different;  but  they 
were  all  at  one  in  their  attitude  towards  life. 


74  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

Religion  for  these  young  men  was  a  kind  of 
girlish  sentimentalism;  morality  was  the  ridicu- 
lous invention  of  the  middle-aged;  only  a  fool 
would  refuse  himself  the  opportunities  of  enjoy- 
ment— to  enjoy  oneself  one  must  go  with  the 
tide,  get  as  much  fun  out  of  existence  as  possible, 
and  take  no  thought  of  any  kind  for  the  morrow. 

You  can  imagine  the  conversation  in  that 
dormitory.  There  would  be  "  adventures  "  to 
relate,  indecent  stories  to  tell,  accounts  to  give 
of  sprees  in  public-houses  and  music-halls.  No 
note  of  culture  at  all.  No  suggestion  whatever 
of  books  and  pictures  and  serious  plays.  No 
discussion  of  politics  and  ethics.  No  talk  of 
healthful  sports  and  games.  Certainly  no  col- 
loquies on  the  soul  and  its  destiny.  Dirty  sto- 
ries, accompanied  by  laughter;  adventures  with 
women,  approved  by  looks  of  admiration;  re- 
citals of  escapades,  capped  and  recapped  till  every 
man  could  feel  himself  a  hero.  Such  was  the 
spirit  of  this  dormitory. 

To  the  newcomer  it  was  dreadful.  He  blushed 
at  the  conversation.  He  was  horrified  by  the 
wickedness  of  these  messmates.  So  shocked  and 
scandalised  was  his  soul  that  he  took  at  last  to 
an  open  expression  of  his  faith.  He  prayed  at 
his  bedside,  and  he  read  his  Bible  night  and 
morning.  But  it  was  not  for  long.  The  tide 
was  drawing  him  away  from  ancient  moorings. 
He    felt   himself    moving   towards   the   others. 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE  75 

More  and  more  he  found  himself  unable  to  bear 
the  laughter  of  their  mockery  and  the  rough  scorn 
of  their  ridicule.  He  ceased  to  pray,  he  aban- 
doned thoughts  of  God.  It  was  so  much  easier 
to  go  with  the  flowing  tide,  and  it  seemed  so 
infinitely  more  natural  to  be  like  all  the  other 
people  about  him.  No  more  chapel,  no  more 
private  prayers,  no  more  reading  of  St.  John,  no 
more  sense  of  conflict  and  struggle  in  his  soul — 
freedom  and  a  sense  of  yielding  to  destiny!  He 
would  not  make  himself  a  prig.  He  would  not 
set  himself  up  to  be  different  from  other  people. 
No,  the  great  world  was  in  the  right — let  us 
eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we  die. 
He  had  no  desire  to  commit  sin,  he  was  even 
anxious  always  to  do  right — but  he  brought  him- 
self to  a  condition  of  mind  when  religion  is  no 
longer  a  restraint  or  a  courage  in  the  conscience, 
and  when  a  man  believes  that  he  has  attained 
tolerance  in  a  disinclination  to  reprehend  evil  in 
others. 

"  When  I  went  home  for  a  holiday,''  he  says, 
"  I  was  easily  able  to  disguise  my  true  feelings 
and  the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  me. 
My  father  used  to  think  that  I  was  all  right, 
and  appeared  to  feel  no  anxiety  about  me.  He 
had  no  idea  at  all  of  the  company  I  was  keep- 
ing. But  later  on  I  lost  my  situation,  and  I 
came  home  to  wait  till  I  could  find  another. 
During  this  period  of  waiting  my  father  began 


76  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

to  see  that  I  was  not  living  as  moral  and  as 
straight  a  life  as  he  had  hoped.  On  several 
occasions  he  hinted  at  his  knowledge  of  this 
change  in  me;  then  he  argued  with  me  openly 
about  it;  and  finally  he  made  an  appeal  to  me 
that  I  would  make  a  surrender  of  my  will  and 
give  myself  up  entirely  to  the  will  of  God.  I 
turned  a  stubborn  ear  to  him.  I  lost  my  temper. 
There  was  a  scene  which  I  do  not  like  to  think 
about,  and  then  I  announced  my  intention  to  go 
to  London  and  manage  for  myself.  On  that  last 
night  at  home — never  shall  I  forget  it — my  father 
pleaded  with  God  to  follow  me  wherever  I  went, 
never  to  forsake  me  however  far  I  might  wander, 
and  expressed  the  certain  knowledge  that  I  should 
never  find  rest  until  I  gave  myself  up  to  a  crucified 
Saviour.'' 

He  went  to  London  and  became  a  shop- 
assistant  in  one  of  the  big  business  houses  of  the 
fashionable  quarter.  Overwhelmed  by  the  splen- 
dour of  London,  bewildered  by  its  myriad  tempta- 
tions, astonished  beyond  all  expression  by  its 
frank  and  quite  challenging  devotion  to  pleasure 
— he  threw  his  lot  in  with  the  companions  of  his 
dormitory  and  gave  himself  absolutely  and  en- 
tirely to  the  flowing  tide. 

These  companions,  in  his  own  words,  "  never 
gave  God  a  thought."  Everything  is  said  in  that 
phrase.  Many  men  sin  and  fall  and  rise  again; 
many  virtuous  men  throughout  their  lives  are 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE  77 

caught  away  from  the  best  by  the  temptation  of 
the  second-rate  or  the  worst;  in  vast  numbers 
of  men,  whatever  their  conduct,  the  sense  of  a 
conflict  between  their  higher  and  lower  nature 
is  the  central  fact  of  their  lives — God  is  always 
at  least  a  thought  in  their  souls.  But  there  is  an 
immense  army  of  men  who,  far  from  feeling  the 
idea  of  God  to  be  the  most  beautiful  and  lifting 
emotion  of  the  human  spirit,  and  far  from  feeling 
any  sense  of  menace  or  anxiety  in  that  idea,  never 
give  a  thought  to  God.  Their  imaginations  can- 
not rise  to  the  contemplation  of  an  Infinite  Being. 
The  pettiness  of  their  surroundings,  the  wholly 
effeminate  nature  of  their  employment,  the  dis- 
astrous conditions  of  their  millinery  lives — these 
things,  whatever  the  character  of  their  upbring- 
ing, tend  to  obscure  in  their  minds  that  realisation 
of  the  grandeur  of  the  universe  and  the  tremen- 
dous issues  of  life  without  which  any  permanent 
and  permeating  comprehension  of  God  is  almost 
impossible. 

Let  us  see  quite  clearly  the  lot  of  these  young 
men  in  the  shops  of  a  great  city.  From  morning 
till  evening  they  are  handling  all  the  refinements 
and  ^luxuries  of  women's  clothing  that  the  most 
elaborate  Fashion  can  devise.  They  spend  the 
impressionable  years  of  their  manhood  in  waiting 
upon  women  who  are  seeking  to  make  themselves 
more  beautiful  and  attractive.  They  are  within 
doors,   in  a  close  atmosphere,   associated  with 


78  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

young  girls  of  their  own  age,  with  no  other  use 
for  their  brains  than  to  sell  the  things  of  the 
boudoir  and  the  bedroom.  In  the  evening  they 
have  the  lighted  streets  for  their  playground.  At 
night  they  sleep  in  dormitories.  The  only  ad- 
venture possible  to  them  is  an  unhealthy  sexual- 
ism,  the  only  powerful  distraction  of  their  leisure 
the  excitements  of  the  town. 

It  is  not  easy  for  these  young  men  to  form 
in  their  minds  a  true  and  enlarging  conception 
of  life.  It  is  most  difficult  for  them  to  follow 
the  path  of  idealism  and  set  their  gaze  upon  the 
heights  of  religion.  Whatever  we  may  think  of 
them,  this  at  least  must  influence  our  judgment: 
no  conditions  of  life  could  be  more  unnatural 
for  a  man,  no  existence  could  be  more  artificial 
and  insidiously  destructive  of  grandeur. 

He  whose  story  I  have  been  tracing  fell  abso- 
lutely from  goodness  and  purity  in  this  new 
environment.  London  overwhelmed  him,  seized 
him  as  a  straw  in  the  tide  of  its  progress,  and 
swept  him  away  with  a  million  others  into  the 
vast  sea  of  its  infamy  and  ruin.  Who  was  he 
to  stand  against  the  flooding  water?  Every  one 
about  him  was  careless,  reckless,  and  indifferent. 
They  were  all  moving  in  the  same  direction.  Not 
one  of  them  was  swimming  against  the  tide. 
Not  one  of  them  set  an  example  of  conflict. 
There  was  no  feeling  of  men  shaping  their  souls 
and  making  a  righteous  destiny.    All  was  a  sense 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE  79 

of  yielding  and  acquiescence,  a  sense  of  smiling 
acceptance,  a  sense  of  moving  with  an  im- 
memorial tide  in  the  direction  of  an  immemorial 
end. 

For  some  months  he  lived  the  life  of  his 
messmates.  He  went  with  them  to  music-halls, 
joined  with  them  in  the  carnival  of  the  streets, 
accompanied  them  into  taverns,  and  shared  in 
all  the  wildness  of  their  carousals.  Things  that 
would  have  inexpressibly  shocked  him  a  few 
weeks  ago  he  now  did  as  cheerfully  as  all  the 
rest;  words  which  would  have  burned  his  lips 
now  passed  from  him  carelessly  and  with  a 
laugh;  thoughts  which  would  have  filled  him 
with  intolerable  shame  now  lay  close  to  his  soul 
and  gratified  him. 

The  fall  was  utter  and  complete.  From  an 
extreme  of  innocence  he  descended  to  an  extreme 
of  flippant  recklessness.  He  was  happy,  he  was 
satisfied.  With  no  God  to  overshadow  his 
thoughts,  with  no  sense  of  struggle  in  his  soul 
to  interrupt  his  will,  he  was  now  free  to  go 
thoughtlessly  and  rapturously  with  the  flowing 
tide.  Had  he  not  now  fulfilled  himself?  Was 
this  not  the  true  enfranchisement  of  the  spirit? 
To  be  free,  to  be  perfectly  free!  To  do  every- 
thing he  wished  to  do.  To  get  as  much  amuse- 
ment and  delight  and  excitement  out  of  life  as 
all  the  rest  of  the  world.  Yes,  he  could  laugh 
with   the   best   of   them   in   the   tavern,    be   as 


80  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

rackety  as  the  wildest  of  them  in  the  music-hall, 
get  as  many  adventures  out  of  the  streets  as  the 
most  daring  of  them,  and  in  the  dormitory  think 
as  little  about  God  as  the  most  bold  and  dissolute. 

Thus,  for  many  months. 

But  that  mysterious  influence  in  a  man's  life 
which  we  call  conscience  began  gradually  to 
make  its  presence  known  in  the  solitude  of  his 
soul.  Every  now  and  then  he  heard  a  voice 
sounding  in  the  depths  of  his  being.  It  was  a 
voice  of  reproach.  It  was  a  voice  whose  sound 
brought  back  a  hundred  memories  in  sighs  to 
his  lips  and  in  tears  to  his  eyes.  He  remembered 
his  childhood,  his  boyhood;  he  remembered  his 
mother's  death;  he  remembered  his  struggle  to 
be  good  and  holy;  he  remembered  the  farewell 
embrace  of  his  father;  he  remembered  the  prayer 
of  the  last  night  in  his  home.  These  remem- 
brances came  to  him  in  the  moments  of  his 
solitude.  They  accompanied  his  soul  into  the 
unconsciousness  of  sleep.  He  awoke  with  them. 
They  recurred  to  him  during  the  busiest  hours 
of  the  day.  He  could  not  put  them  from  him  in 
the  midst  of  a  boisterous  amusement. 

He  was  conscious  that  he  was  not  what  he 
might  have  been,  not  what  the  love  and  prayers 
of  his  mother,  and  the  unceasing  care  and  train- 
ing of  his  father,  ought  to  have  made  him.  He 
was  as  bad  as,  perhaps  he  was  worse  than,  those 
of  his  companions  who  spoke  with  contempt  of 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE  81 

their  parents  and  who  had  never  in  their  lives 
entered  a  church  or  read  a  Bible.  He  was 
stained  with  sin.  His  innocence  was  gone, 
and  with  his  innocence  the  last  shreds  of  his 
purity.  Indifferent  to  God,  careless  of  conse- 
quences, tired  of  religion,  and  abandoned  wholly 
to  the  degenerate  thoughts  and  atrophying  lusts 
of  animalism,  he  who  had  once  been  pure,  he  who 
had  once  been  innocent,  was  moving — very  con- 
scious in  himself  of  the  sense  of  the  movement — 
away  from  all  that  he  had  once  held  good,  away 
from  all  that  was  purest  and  most  sweet  in  his 
memory,  away  from  the  manful  combat  and 
the  exalting  aspirations  of  his  spiritual  dawn, 
moving  away  from  all  this  on  the  flowing  tide 
of  the  world — yes,  moving  away  from  the  past, 
but  Whither  ? 

It  was  this  thought  more  than  any  other  which 
checked  him.  What  was  to  be  the  end  of  such 
a  life?  On  what  ultimate  shore  would  the  tide 
cast  his  drowning  soul?  He  was  not  afraid  of 
death,  apparently  he  stood  in  no  fear  of  God's 
judgment;  but  he  shuddered  at  the  contemplation 
of  the  man  he  was  making,  of  the  destiny  he  was 
preparing,  of  the  soul  he  was  creating.  He 
trembled  to  think  what  he  was  to  become,  here 
on  the  earth,  by  his  own  shaping  and  at  his 
own  will. 

An  utter  wretchedness  of  mind  took  possession 
of  him.     More  miserable  man,  he  thinks,  never 


82  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

struggled  for  intensest  loneliness  in  the  midst 
of  London's  crowding  phantasmagoria.  Every 
moment  which  opened  a  door  to  solitude  he 
seized  with  the  eagerness  of  a  hunted  animal. 
To  be  alone,  to  think — this  was  the  hunger  and 
thirst  of  his  soul.  He  wanted  to  be  free  of  the 
surging  occupations  of  his  life,  free  of  the  com- 
panions who  surrounded  him  with  ribaldry,  free 
of  the  trivial  and  the  unessential — alone  with 
his  soul. 

How  could  he  turn,  having  come  so  far?  turn, 
and  swim  back  again,  back,  against  the  tide? 
What  hope  was  there  for  escape  from  these 
fathomless  waters,  wide  as  the  world  itself? 
Where  could  he  turn  and  find  the  companionship 
of  the  good,  an  occupation  that  was  ennobling, 
a  future  that  held  something  to  strive  for,  some- 
thing greatly  to  desire  ?  All  about  him  this  broad, 
moving  tide  of  indifference,  reckless  abandon- 
ment, and  unrighteous  selfishness,  a  vast  tide  of 
drowning  and  perishing  humanity — how  could 
he  escape  from  it?  How  could  he  look  to  be 
different  from  the  rest? 

On  a  certain  Sunday  afternoon  he  made  away 
from  his  friends  and  walked  through  the  streets 
of  London,  wrestling  with  his  soul.  His  de- 
jection was  very  great.  He  could  not  rid  himself 
of  a  depressing  despair,  the  despair  of  fatalism. 
All  would  be  as  it  was.  Nothing  could  be 
changed.    Till  the  end  of  life  he  would  go  with 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE  83 

the  tide,  carried  even  farther  from  the  shore 
already  out  of  sight,  borne  onward  into  greater 
darkness  and  deeper  waters  of  affliction.  Nothing 
could  alter  it. 

He  entered  Hyde  Park  through  the  Marble 
Arch,  and  wandered  through  the  crowds  of 
people  standing  in  a  loose  density  before  the  plat- 
forms of  rival  orators.  He  heard  an  atheist's 
contemptuous  challenge,  a  Socialist's  denuncia- 
tion, and  a  clergyman's  appeal.  He  stopped  and 
listened.  Then  he  drew  nearer.  It  reminded 
him  of  his  home. 

The  appeal  of  this  missioner  was  made  to 
young  men  who  had  come  from  the  provinces 
pure  and  upright  and  who  had  become  in  London 
base,  careless,  and  degenerate.  No  words  could 
have  struck  cleaner  home  to  his  heart.  He  drew 
still  nearer,  listened  with  all  his  soul,  and  felt 
the  tears  coming  into  his  eyes.  He  bowed  his 
head,  ashamed  of  those  tears,  but  conscious  of 
the  relief  they  brought  him,  and  listened  like 
a  guilty  man  to  the  words  of  the  preacher. 
After  this  sermon  a  lady  sang  a  solo,  a  voice 
so  beautiful  and  caressing  that  it  instantly  drew 
crowds  away  from  the  other  platforms.  In  the 
thick  of  these  people  the  young  man  listened 
and  longed  for  a  return  to  purity.  The  words 
went  home  to  his  heart,  the  music  haunted  his 
soul.  "  If  anybody,"  he  says,  "  had  asked  me 
at  that  moment  definitely  to  give  myself  to  God, 


84  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

without  a  thought  I  should  have  thrown  myself 
at  the  feet  of  my  Saviour." 

But  no  one  spoke  to  him,  and  when  the  meet- 
ing broke  up  he  passed  solitarily  away,  a  unit 
in  the  immense  and  separating  crowd.  He  found 
himself  in  the  streets,  "  the  most  miserable  man 
that  ever  trod  upon  God's  earth."" 

For  a  week  he  endured  this  intense  misery, 
longing  to  escape  from  his  evil  companions, 
hungering  to  be  stronger  than  temptation,  and 
thirsting  after  reconciliation  with  God. 

Early  one  morning  there  was  a  sudden  and 
unusual  excitement  in  the  house  of  business 
where  he  was  employed.  He  saw  men  with 
white  faces  and  scared  eyes  talking  together. 
People  were  hurrying  to  and  fro.  He  inquired 
the  cause  of  £his  commotion.  Some  one  told 
him,  "  Robert  Hards  was  found  dead  in  his  bed, 
suffocated  with  gas." 

Yesterday  he  had  worked  side  by  side  with 
this  poor  youth;  they  had  talked  together;  young 
Hards  was  strong  and  robust,  a  brave  companion, 
a  good  worker — the  last  man  in  the  world  to 
make  an  end  of  himself.  But  he  was  dead. 
Something  in  his  life  had  been  heavier  than  his 
soul  could  endure.  He  had  escaped  from  the 
world;  he  had  got  out  of  life;  he  was  dead;  but 
his  soul — where  was  his  soul  ? 

The  tragic  death  of  his  friend  and  companion 
made  a  profound  and  determining  impression 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE  85 

on  the  mind  of  the  poor  youth  struggling  for 
escape  from  the  flood  of  ruin. 

Say  that,  afraid  of  hell,  he  feared  to  die  as 
he  was,  or  that,  conscious  of  heaven,  he  longed 
to  die  other  than  he  was — whatever  the  human 
words  may  be  by  which  we  choose  to  designate 
the  movement  and  pressing  impulse  of  his  soul, 
certain  it  is  that  he  came  face  to  face  with  the 
last  thing  in  human  experience,  looked  death 
in  the  eyes,  saw  the  terrible  hazard  that  lay 
behind  that  ever-approaching  and  never-to-be- 
placated  spectre  in  man's  path,  and  determined 
to  be  a  better  man.  He  says  that  the  death 
of  Robert  Hards  shook  him  terribly,  that  he  was 
haunted  by  it,  that  the  suddenness  of  it  was  like 
a  stunning  blow  to  him;  but  also  he  says  that, 
detached  from  himself,  he  thought  for  a  long 
time  of  the  home  from  which  Hards  had  come, 
thought  of  the  parents  and  their  prayers,  and 
felt  the  pathos  of  that  tragic  ending  with  a  most 
poignant  sensation  of  tears.  The  thought  of 
good,  therefore,  was  at  least  present  in  his  mind, 
however  overriding  the  fear  of  death.  All  the 
purity  and  goodness  of  childhood  revived  in  his 
soul,  as  imagination  pictured  the  home  of  the 
poor  suicide.  He  imagined  the  hopes  that  a 
father  and  mother  had  entertained  for  that  un- 
happy youth,  and  recalled  to  his  mind  the  parting 
benediction  of  his  own  mother  and  the  prayers  of 
the  father  whose  love  he  had  requited  with  a  life 


86  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

of  failure  and  wretchedness.  Certainly  if  death 
terrified  him,  he  was  also  conscious  of  remorse, 
shame,  and  aspiration. 

He  was  in  the  position  of  a  man  who  knows 
the  way  out  of  danger  but  is  afraid  to  take  it. 
There  was  nothing  that  priest  could  tell  him. 
If  he  had   not  deeply   experienced   religion,   at 
least  he  knew  all  that  it  had  to  say  to  a  soul 
in  his  condition.     He  knew  that  he  must  bow 
himself  in  the  dust  and  cry  for  help  to  a  Saviour. 
He  knew  that  it  was  in  vain  to  struggle  until 
that  submission  had  been  made.     Moreover,  he 
had  the  feeling  of  a  necessity  for  public  humilia- 
tion, public  confession,  public  cry  for  mercy  and 
assistance.     He  was  conscious  of  the  need  for 
some   strong   and   extraordinary   action  on   the 
part  of  his  soul,  some  moment  of  upheaval  never 
to  be  found  in  the  hours  of  solitude.     He  was 
convinced  of  this.     He  was  absolutely  convinced 
of  it.     Before  he  could  be  born  again,  before 
he  could  feel  his  body  purged  by  conversion  and 
his  spirit  renewed  by  regeneration,  it  was  neces- 
sary for  him — however  he  might  shrink  from  it — 
to  suffer  an  abnormal  experience. 

He  prayed  in  secret  to  God,  and  in  that  prayer 
he  vowed  to  make  the  act  of  submission,  if  he 
were  spared  to  do  so,  on  the  following  Sunday. 
He  kept  his  vow.  The  preacher  in  Hyde  Park 
had  belonged  to  the  West  London  Mission. 
When  Sunday  came  he  went  to  the  central  service 


THE  FLOWING  TIDE  8? 

of  this  Mission.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  service 
the  invitation  was  given  for  those  who  felt  them- 
selves greatly  in  need  of  a  Saviour  to  stand  up. 
He  was  the  first  to  rise.  All  nervousness,  all 
timidity,  all  hampering  self-consciousness  de- 
parted from  his  mind,  and  he  was  conscious  of 
nothing  but  his  soul's  need  and  a  longing  for 
the  new  life  and  the  cleansing  sense  of  regen- 
eration. 

In  the  room  into  which  he  was  taken  he  met 
the  man  who  has  since  become  his  dearest  friend 
and  chiefest  blessing,  a  most  able  and  excellent 
man,  free  of  all  cant,  quiet  and  attractive  in 
his  enthusiasm,  profoundly  experienced  in  the 
tragedies  of  human  life.  Tenderly  received  and 
graciously  encouraged  by  this  missioner,  the 
young  man  then  and  there,  to  use  his  own  words, 
"gave  himself  to  God,"  a  phrase  which  means 
a  deep,  utter,  and  most  earnest  submission  of 
the  human  will  to  that  sense  of  the  Divine  will, 
that  sense  of  the  highest  and  the  best,  that  sense 
of  pursuing  love  and  overshadowing  protection 
which  exists  in  the  soul  of  all  who  have  ever 
prayed. 

"  Since  that  night,"  he  says,  "  my  life  has 
been  one  long  joy  and  gladness." 

All  the  hesitancy  left  him.  Temptations  to 
which  he  had  yielded  withered  like  flowers  struck 
by  a  frost.  Shame  to  confess  his  faith  lifted  like 
a  mist  from  his  brain.     He  felt  the  sun  shining 


88  THE  FLOWING  TIDE 

in  his  face.  He  was  conscious  of  strength.  He 
was  conscious  of  courage.  He  was  conscious  of 
joy.  Never  more  would  he  fear  the  ridicule  of 
men  or  be  ashamed  to  confess  his  Master.  Rather 
with  a  very  glory  of  suffusing  certitude  would 
he  profess  the  faith  of  his  soul  and  live  the  life 
of  a  Galahad,  even  if  it  had  to  be  in  a  London 
shop. 

"  It  is  with  man's  Soul/'  says  Carlyle,  "  as  it 
was  with  Nature:  the  beginning  of  Creation  is 
— Light."  And  of  Conversion  he  says :  "  Blame 
not  the  word,  rejoice  rather  that  such  a  word, 
signifying  such  a  thing,  has  come  to  light  in 
our  modern  Era,  though  hidden  from  the  wisest 
Ancients.  The  Old  World  knew  nothing  of  Con- 
version; instead  of  an  Ecce  Homo,  they  had 
only  some  Choice  of  Hercules.  It  was  a  new- 
attained  progress  in  the  Moral  Development  of 
man:  hereby  has  the  Highest  come  home  to  the 
bosoms  of  the  most  Limited;  what  to  Plato  was 
but  a  hallucination,  and  to  Socrates  a  chimera, 
is  now  clear  and  certain  to  your  Zinzendorfs, 
your  Wesleys,  and  the  poorest  of  their  Pietists 
and  Methodists." 


TWO  ROADS 

ONLY  as  a  pendant  to  the  foregoing  narra- 
tive— for  there  are  other  tales  of  a  more 
diverse  and  wonderful  kind  waiting  to 
be  told — I  set  down  in  this  place,  as  briefly  as 
possible,  the  story  of  another  youth  who  came 
to  London  from  a  good  home  in  the  provinces, 
and  but  for  the  saving  hand  of  religion  must 
have  ended  his  life  most  miserably,  and  perhaps 
very  tragically,  among  the  wreckage  of  that  great 
but  perilous  city. 

He  was  cursed  from  boyhood  with  an  un- 
governable temper,  and  flung  himself  out  of  his 
father's  home  in  a  fit  of  rage  to  make  his  own 
way  in  life,  and  at  whatever  cost,  in  some  em- 
ployment, he  cared  not  greatly  what  it  was,  where 
he  would  be  free  of  parental  control. 

When  his  brothers  asked  him  what  he  was 
going  to  do  in  London,  he  told  them  to  mind 
their  own  business.  When  his  father  implored 
him  to  stay  at  home,  he  replied  that  he  would 
rather  die.  Sick  of  the  simple  life  in  that  little 
town,  weary  of  influences  which  had  begun  to 
gall  him,  this  headstrong  and  impetuous  youth 
shook  the  dust  of  home  from  off  his  feet,  and 

89 


90  TWO  ROADS 

went  up  to  London  his  own  master  and  without 
a  friend  in  the  world. 

By  means  of  an  advertisement  in  a  newspaper 
he  obtained  employment  in  a  wine-bar,  and  so 
proud  was  he  of  this  place  that  he  wrote  in- 
solently home  on  the  notepaper  of  the  tavern, 
telling  his  brothers  that  they  did  not  know  what 
life  was,  poked  down  in  a  little  miserable  country 
town.  As  for  religion,  he  had  put  it  clean  out 
of  his  mind,  once  and  for  all. 

His  last  employer  in  that  country  town  had 
been  his  boyhood's  Sunday-school  teacher,  and 
hearing  of  his  condition,  this  good  man  journeyed 
to  London,  visited  the  wine-bar,  and  begged  the 
youth  to  give  up  such  hazardous  work  and  return 
home  to  work  in  his  shop.  "  I  can't  tell  you," 
says  the  youth,  "just  how  I  felt;  something 
tempted  me  to  tell  him  to  mind  his  own  business, 
and  then  again  there  was  another  voice  telling 
me  to  take  his  advice.  I  didn't  tell  him  to  mind 
his  own  business,  but  by  my  manner  I  let  him  see 
that  I  resented  his  interference.  He  went  away, 
and  did  not  trouble  me  again." 

Some  time  after  this  came  his  first  Christmas 
in  London,  and  he  took  to  drink.  He  became 
loose  in  his  conduct  and  careless  in  his  habits, 
but  he  performed  his  duties  well,  and  was  popu- 
lar with  his  employers.  After  a  year's  work, 
conscious  of  unrest  in  his  mind,  he  looked  out 
for  another  place,  and  obtained  a  better  situation 


TWO  ROADS  91 

in  a  more  fashionable  wine-bar.  He  was  much 
happier  here,  till  he  fell  in  love  with  a  girl  em- 
ployed at  the  same  place.  This  girl,  who  appears 
to  have  been  beautiful,  capricious,  and  coquettish, 
was  in  some  dim  way  mindful  of  virtue.  She 
was  engaged  to  a  man  at  sea;  her  troth  was 
faithful,  in  her  opinion,  so  long  as  she  did  not 
fall  into  sin  with  anybody  else;  she  permitted 
herself  to  flirt,  she  sought  to  make  herself  attrac- 
tive and  bewitching,  but  there  was  always  a  point 
at  which  flirtation  stopped.  Desperately  enam- 
oured of  this  girl,  truly  and  profoundly  in  love 
with  her  so  far  as  his  nature  could  comprehend 
love,  the  young  man  gave  himself  up  to  his  adora- 
tion. For  her  he  saved  his  money,  and  with  her 
he  spent  that  money  in  theatres,  music-halls,  and 
restaurants. 

Love,  working  like  a  madness  in  his  corrupted 
blood,  brought  him  at  last  to  such  a  dejection 
that  he  contemplated  the  murder  of  the  girl  he 
could  never  possess.  He  would  murder  her,  and 
then  commit  suicide.  He  says  it  was  not  so 
much  the  thought  that  he  could  never  possess 
her,  but  the  terrible  thought  that  somebody  else 
would,  which  seemed  to  drive  him  mad  and 
strengthen  his  determination  to  murder  her. 
Rather  than  see  her  the  wife  of  another  man  he 
would  see  her  dead,  and  dead  by  his  own  hand. 
It  was  unbearable  that  she  should  be  taken  from 
him. 


92  TWO  ROADS 

He  drank  harder  than  ever  in  this  great  de- 
jection, alternating  between  wild  and  heroic 
moods,  when  murder  seemed  an  apotheosis  for 
his  troubled  soul,  and  shuddering  moods  when 
the  baseness  of  his  life  came  home  to  him  like 
a  monition  from  destiny. 

"  It  was  nothing  but  the  Hand  of  God,"  he 
says,  "  which  kept  me  from  murder.  I  could 
distinctly  hear  a  Voice  telling  me  to  make  a  fresh 
start  in  life." 

Haunted  by  this  Voice,  pursued  by  it  in  every 
thought  of  his  brain,  the  conflict  between  the 
violence  of  his  passion  and  the  quiet  pleading 
of  his  conscience  moving  every  day  to  the  hour 
when  decision  must  be  made  for  good  or  for 
evil,  he  perceived  with  absolute  clearness  of  vision 
that  rescue  lay  for  him  in  two  things — he  must 
utterly  stamp  out  every  dying  ember  of  his  pres- 
ent life,  he  must  utterly  give  himself  up  to  the 
life  of  religion. 

He  began  to  follow  the  famous  Regent  Street 
Band  of  the  Salvation  Army  on  Sunday  after- 
noons. Sometimes  he  would  go  to  a  service. 
Sometimes  he  went  to  open-air  meetings  in  Hyde 
Park. 

"  I  tried  to  cover  my  sins,"  he  says,  "  but 
they  stared  me  in  the  face  worse  than  ever. 
I  could  see  the  net  I  was  weaving  about 
myself  was  getting  tighter  every  day.  At 
last,     in     desperation,     I     wrote     asking     my 


TWO  ROADS  93 

old  Sunday-school  teacher  to  help  me  out  of  the 
t  rouble.' ' 

The  result  of  that  letter  was  an  introduction 
to  the  West  London  Mission.  He  attended  the 
services,  but  his  trouble  remained.  "  I  began 
to  feel  sorry  I  had  ever  written.  My  old  filthy 
temper  was  rising  up  in  rebellion  again.  Many 
questions  crossed  my  mind."  But  finally,  after  a 
great  battle,  he  saw  one  of  the  missioners.  "I 
was  doubting  between  two  questions:  whether 
God  was  leading  me,  or  whether  it  was  only  fancy 
on  my  own  part.  I  prayed  for  guidance.  I  be- 
came fully  convinced  that  it  rested  with  me  to 
decide  between  right  and  wrong.  One  thing 
I  knew — I  had  the  choice  of  two  roads.  I  thank 
God  for  giving  me  the  strength  to  choose  the 
narrow  road  which  leads  to  eternal  life.  If 
anybody  told  me  they  didn't  believe  that  God 
led  me,  I  should  ask  them  what  reason  they 
could  give  me  for  the  sudden  change  in  my 
conscience." 

Shepherded  by  the  West  London  Mission,  he 
became  not  only  a  convert,  but  a  worker,  and 
now,  having  felt  the  clamour  of  his  manhood  for 
a  life  more  vigorous  than  the  metropolis  can 
afford  young  men,  he  is  a  collier  in  Wales,  fight- 
ing the  soul's  battle  in  more  manful  surround- 
ings, and  trusting  only  in  prayer  for  the  strength 
to  support  his  resolutions. 

"lama  proper  collier  now,"  he  writes,  "  and 


94  TWO  ROADS 

have  a  good  laugh  at  myself  when  I  look  in  the 
glass  after  I  have  been  working.  You  would 
never  know  me,  I  am  sure." 

But  for  religion,  what  would  have  been  the 
fate  of  this  man? 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

IN  the  middle  of  the  last  century  there  was 
living  in  a  county  town  on  the  northern 
side  of  London  a  family  which  had  all  those 
good  qualities  to  be  found  in  provincial  society, 
when  sobriety  of  conduct,  assiduity  in  business, 
and  loyalty  to  religious  traditions  were  accepted 
as  the  first  essentials  of  respectability,  before  the 
levity,  flippancy,  and  light-hearted  tolerance  of 
the  metropolis  had  penetrated  to  corrupt  the 
rigidity  of  an  old-fashioned  behaviour. 

To  casual  observance  this  family  presented  the 
appearance  of  an  untroubled  prosperity.  The 
father  was  a  well-to-do  solicitor  who  associated 
himself  with  the  civic  life  of  the  town  and  took 
a  leading  part  in  the  local  religion  and  politics  of 
Nonconformist  circles.  He  occupied  a  comfort- 
able house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  was 
regarded  by  his  neighbours  as  a  man  of  sub- 
stance, and  enjoyed  the  respect  of  those  who 
most  differed  from  him  in  politics  and  religion. 
He  was  a  man  of  such  large  heart,  such  frank 
pleasantness,  such  shining  honesty,  and  such  con- 
tagious tolerance  that  he  inspired  the  good-will 
of  every  class  and  faction  in  the  town,  and  was 

95 


96       THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

regarded  as  a  friend  and  consulted  as  a  man  of 
business  even  by  those  who  regretted  his  dissent 
and  wished  his  politics  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

In  the  humbler  orbit  of  their  social  life,  the 
wife  and  mother  of  this  family  enjoyed  an  equal 
popularity  and  an  even  warmer  love.  Whereas 
the  man  was  big,  capacious,  and  expansive,  she 
was  minute,  quiet,  tender,  and  sympathetic — a 
little  mouse  of  a  woman  whose  brown  eyes  and 
appealing  smile  did  not  in  the  least  conceal  the 
vigour  of  a  quick  intelligence  and  the  masterful- 
ness of  an  inflexible  will.  She  was  famous  in 
the  circle  of  her  acquaintance  as  a  woman  of 
parts — an  excellent  manager,  a  fine  needle- 
woman, a  successful  gardener,  and  the  possessor 
of  unequalled  recipes  for  puddings  and  cakes. 
Moreover  she  was  known  to  her  intimates  as  a 
woman  of  the  shrewdest  judgment,  and  as  a 
relentless  enemy  of  sentimentalism,  humbug, 
equivocation,  and  fiddle-faddle  of  every  kind  and 
description. 

There  were  three  children  of  the  marriage, 
two  girls  and  a  boy.  At  the  hands  of  their 
father  they  received  every  indulgence.  Under 
the  more  constant  governance  of  the  mother  they 
were  trained  with  a  noble  severity  and  a  right- 
eous economy.  The  child  of  whom  this  story 
tells  never  felt  for  the  kind  and  indulgent  father 
anything  like  the  same  enthusiastic  admiration 
which  she  entertained  towards  the  sterner  mother. 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL       97 

This  child,  writing  to  me  now  as  a  middle- 
aged  woman,  and  after  one  of  the  most  terrible 
experiences  that  can  befall  a  human  creature, 
says  that  the  home-life,  as  she  remembers  it, 
was  quiet  and  regular,  knowing  nothing  either 
of  excitation  or  depression.  Her  mother  had 
grown  up  in  the  strictest  principles  of  a  stern 
sect,  and  governed  her  own  home  on  the  same 
lines.  "  We  went  regularly  to  chapel,  attended 
Sunday  School  from  a  very  early  age,  and  were 
not  allowed  to  engage  in  any  doubtful  amuse- 
ments, such  as  card-playing,  theatricals,  or  danc- 
ing. We  were  taught  *  to  fear  God  and  keep 
His  commandments,'  but  never  once  were  we 
taught  to  understand  that  love  of  God,  leading  to 
a  willing  and  happy  obedience,  is  the  true  life 
of  a  Christian.  As  for  the  intellectual  tone  of 
the  home,  it  was  fairly  cultured,  above  the 
average  of  that  time  in  middle-class  circles.  My 
father  was  a  keen  politician,  and  made  me  read 
the  parliamentary  debates  to  him;  my  sister  was 
intelligent  and  well-read;  my  brother  was  clever, 
musical,  and  very  attractive — for  many  years 
he  was  my  highest  ideal  of  manhood. "  A  sym- 
pathetic reader  will  be  able  to  form  for  himself 
the  picture  of  this  family's  sitting-room  on  a 
winter-night — the  father  reading  his  newspaper 
on  one  side  of  the  hearthrug,  the  little  mother 
busy  with  needle  and  thread  on  the  other,  a 
long-haired,   "  very  attractive "  youth  standing 


98       THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

at  the  piano,  one  sister  playing  his  accompani- 
ment, the  other  sister  glancing  from  her  book, 
as  she  turns  the  page,  at  the  handsome 
brother,  texts  on  the  wall,  a  wire  flower-stand 
with  plants  in  the  bow  window,  a  clean  hearth, 
nothing  out  of  place,  and  curtains  drawn  to 
keep  out  the  night  and  muffle  the  moan  of  the 
wind. 

Who  will  think  that  a  family  of  such  un- 
interesting prosperity  and  such  Hebraic  notions 
of  the  gift  of  life,  could  be  haunted  by  a  ghost, 
could  have  a  skeleton  locked  away  in  the  cup- 
board, could  have  a  spectre  standing  in  the  midst 
of  them,  between  the  human  hearth  and  the 
curtained  window?  Who  would  suppose  that 
this  little  circle  of  human  commonplace,  this 
little  group  of  dull  goodness  and  mechanical 
respectability,  were  living  under  the  black  im- 
pending shadow  of  desolation  and  death,  were 
to  be  scattered  like  chaff  before  the  wind,  were 
to  be  stricken  with  a  sword  of  fire,  were  to  be 
plunged  into  the  abyss  of  degradation?  Who 
could  suppose,  to  see  them  gathered  there  in 
warm  security  and  comfortable  ease,  so  united  in 
family  affection,  so  secluded  from  the  heat  and 
glare  of  temptation,  so  unlikely  to  feei  the  sweep 
of  deep  emotion  or  the  dizzying  rush  of  passion — 
that  in  the  blood  of  every  one  of  them,  save 
only  the  mother  busy  with  her  needle  and  thread, 
was  such  a  poison,  such  a  taint,  such  a  furious 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL       99 

madness  as  would  one  day  rend  their  souls  and 
tear  their  bodies  like  the  demons  of  old? 

The  spectre  in  the  room  was  the  ghost  of  the 
man's  father,  and  one  can  imagine  how  the  ghost 
trembled  and  shook  with  a  guilty  palsy  of  re- 
morse when  the  man  rose  from  his  chair  and 
went  to  the  decanter  and  glasses  on  the  table.  .  .  . 

In    those    days    medical    knowledge    had    not 
penetrated  to  general  society;  and  medical  knowl- 
edge of  what  we  now  understand  by  the  term 
dipsomania  had  not  advanced  to  any  warrant- 
able certainty  even  among  the  most  thorough  of 
investigators.     That  the  thing  called  dipsomania 
was  entirely  different  from  drunkenness  had  not 
entered  the  consciousness  of  mankind,  nor  was 
it  generally  believed  that  a  child  could  inherit 
from  its  parents  an  overmastering  and  insatiable 
passion  for  alcohol.     Therefore  even  the  watch- 
ful and  devoted  mother  of  this  family,  who  knew 
that  their  grandfather   had   died   a   drunkard's 
death,    who   knew   that   their    father   made    an 
increasing  use  of  the  decanter,  who  knew  that 
several  of  their  cousins  were  already  on  the  road 
of  alcoholic  ruin,  who  could  see  wherever  she 
looked  that  the  thing  was  in  the  family,  spreading 
like  a  hideous  cancer  among  all  the  descendants 
of  the  dead  grandfather  in  his  drunkard's  grave, 
never  thought  that  her  children,  trained  to  fear 
God  and  keep  His  commandments,  taken  regu- 
larly to  chapel  and  sent  from  their  earliest  years 


100     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

to  Sunday  School,  could  fall  to  perdition  and 
become  like  maniacs  through  drink. 

So  they  grew  up,  unsuspected  and  unwarned; 
and  childhood  passed  away,  youth  came,  and 
the  dawn  of  independence  found  them  still  happy 
and  united,  still  living  in  the  sunshine  of  pros- 
perity, and  still,  in  the  eyes  of  all  their  neigh- 
bours, an  enviable  and  pattern  family  exemplify- 
ing the  proverbs  of  respectability  and  justifying 
the  commercial  wisdom  of  the  middle-classes. 

The  youngest  daughter  was  at  this  time  the 
most  active  worker  of  the  family  in  religious 
matters.  She  taught  in  the  Sunday  School,  vis- 
ited what  is  called  a  tract  district,  and  took  a 
leading  part  in  the  organisation  of  religious  meet- 
ings. It  was  just  at  this  period  that  the  great 
temperance  movement,  of  which  we  are  only  now 
beginning  to  see  the  harvest,  came  into  existence, 
and  greeted  by  the  scorn,  derision,  and  contempt 
of  mankind  set  itself  to  fight  a  disease  far  more 
deadly  than  tuberculosis.  A  local  society  was 
formed  in  the  town  where  this  family  lived,  and 
the  youngest  daughter  joined  it — against  the 
wishes  of  her  mother.  It  was  pointed  out  to  her 
by  this  good  mother  that  she  had  always  been 
used  to  wine,  that  for  some  years  she  had  regu- 
larly taken  stout  on  the  advice  of  the  doctor,  and 
that  suddenly  to  break  this  habit  and  discontinue 
this  treatment  was  to  imperil  her  health.  The 
girl,  however,  stuck  to  her  point,  and,  having 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     101 

learned  something  of  temperance  reform,  began 
to  perceive  the  possibility  of  inherited  danger 
in  the  case  of  herself  and  her  family.  She  placed 
herself  at  the  head  of  a  local  Band  of  Hope,  and 
was  one  of  the  most  devoted  temperance  re- 
formers in  the  district. 

For  ten  years  she  was  a  devout  Christian, 
according  to  her  lights,  and  certainly  a  most  en- 
ergetic, painstaking,  and  earnest  worker  in  the 
religious  life  of  her  native  place.  Then,  when 
she  was  about  eight-and-twenty,  a  change  came 
over  her  character.  She  grew  cold  and  indiffer- 
ent in  the  religious  life.  Private  prayer  was 
neglected,  if  she  read  the  Bible  it  was  hurriedly 
and  impatiently  to  "  get  up  "  a  lesson  for  Sunday 
School,  if  she  went  to  chapel  it  was  only  because 
of  appearances.  During  this  time  there  were 
occasions  when  the  father  startled  and  saddened 
the  family  by  drunkenness. 

The  religious  crisis  lasted  with  her  for  nearly 
four  years.  Now  and  then  a  sermon  more  earnest 
and  searching  than  usual  would  stir  a  faint  desire 
in  her  heart  for  the  peace  and  happiness  which 
she  had  known  in  the  past;  but  more  and  more 
dimly  did  the  light  burn  in  her  soul,  until  at 
last,  deliberately  and  consciously,  she  abandoned 
aspiration  and  relinquished  every  effort  to  be- 
lieve. "  I  settled  down,"  she  says,  "  to  a  life  of 
conscious  hypocrisy/' 

I  would  sooner  find  a  definition  for  any  word 


102     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

in  the  dictionary  than  for  this  one  word, 
"  hypocrisy."  Fear  of  hypocrisy  has  certainly 
been  a  cause  of  ruin  to  many  souls  more  sensitive 
on  the  score  of  their  own  personal  honour  than 
regardful  of  public  opinion.  To  pretend  to  be 
good  is  often  the  best  ladder  a  soul  can  find 
from  the  pit  of  perdition.  To  sin  in  secret  is 
one  way  of  acknowledging  to  oneself  that  sin 
is  shameful.  To  be  mindful  of  the  censure  of 
neighbours  is  one  way  of  confessing  to  oneself 
the  sovereignty  of  conscience.  How  many  men 
have  been  won  ultimately  to  purity  by  keeping 
themselves  aloof  from  the  company  of  honest 
sinners,  and  by  hiding  their  falls  from  the  com- 
pany of  virtuous  people  with  whom  they  asso- 
ciated ?  And  how  many  men  have  gone  headlong 
to  corruption  and  desolation  by  forsaking  the 
society  of  the  good  and  abandoning  the  pretence 
of  virtue,  out  of  disgust  and  fear  for  the  name 
of  hypocrite?  "The  road  to  heaven,"  said  a 
friend  of  Edward  FitzGerald,  "  is  made  up  of 
resolutions  made,  broken,  and  renewed."  To 
break  a  good  resolution  secretly,  privately,  and 
with  shame,  seems  to  argue  a  finer  nature  and  a 
more  sensitive  spirit  than  to  break  it  publicly  and 
recklessly.  In  each  case,  mark  you,  it  is  coward- 
ice of  public  opinion  which  determines  the  course 
of  action — the  one  man  is  afraid  of  the  censure 
of  the  good,  the  other  of  the  ridicule  of  the 
bad. 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     103 

But  this  woman  insists  with  a  piercing  contri- 
tion that  she  was  a  conscious  and  deliberate 
hypocrite.  It  is  her  hypocrisy  that  causes  her 
greater  distress  of  soul  than  anything  else  in 
her  tragic  life.  She  cannot  bear  to  think  about 
it  even  now;  the  memory  of  it  bows  her  head 
and  brings  tears  to  eyes  which  have  long  learned 
to  shine  with  the  most  beautiful  happiness; — 
"  I  settled  down,"  she  says,  "  to  a  life  of  con- 
scious hypocrisy,  for  I  had  not  the  courage  to 
avow  the  change  in  my  heart." 

Outwardly  she  maintained  her  Christian  stand- 
ing— taught  in  the  Sunday  School,  led  the  Band 
of  Hope  meetings,  visited  her  tract  district,  regu- 
larly attended  class  meetings,  and  regularly  was 
present  at  Communion.  She  did  not  dare  to  tell 
her  mother  that  faith  had  disappeared  from  her 
heart;  she  did  not  dare  to  set  the  neighbours 
talking  by  giving  up  her  work  and  absenting 
herself  from  Communion.  She  believed  nothing. 
Nevertheless  she  marched  in  the  ranks  of  those 
who  believed  everything. 

Her  bodily  strength  began  to  give  way,  and 
under  the  stress  of  this  physical  exhaustion  she 
broke  her  pledge :  "  I  took  at  first  only  a  tiny 
drop,  when  my  physical  strength  seemed  unequal 
to  the  demand  upon  it;  after  a  time  it  grew  to 
be  a  regular  habit,  but  still  I  kept  within  the 
bounds  of  temperance  and  all  seemed  safe.  My 
friends  at  home  rejoiced  to  see  how  reasonable 


104.     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

I  had  grown,  for  they  had  always  objected  to 
my  total  abstinence/' 

Things  were  in  this  perilous  condition  when 
the  storm  broke.  It  began  by  the  decay  of  the 
father's  power  and  his  surrender  to  alcoholism. 
The  prosperity  of  the  home  became  clouded  and 
overcast.  The  brother  who  had  married  and 
was  living  in  London  became  at  this  time  a  victim 
of  drink,  and  lost  his  employment.  The  sister 
who  had  been  married  some  years  and  was  the 
mother  of  children,  suddenly  fell  under  the  same 
curse.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  sorrow  came  the 
news  that  the  man  to  whom  the  youngest  daugh- 
ter was  engaged,  to  whom  she  was  passionately 
attached  and  earnestly  devoted,  had  been  taken 
seriously  ill  and  was  lying  at  death's  door.  A 
few  weeks  of  agonising  suspense,  and  then  the 
deepest  darkness  of  all  for  her  despairing 
heart. 

It  was  this  cataclysm  of  tragedy  that  swept 
away  the  soul  of  the  woman  and  crushed  it  to 
the  earth.  She  had  gone  out  as  a  governess 
at  the  first  signs  of  her  lather's  failing  health, 
and  for  some  years  had  been  helping  to  support 
the  family.  Now,  with  the  complete  downfall 
of  her  father,  the  sudden  catastrophe  to  the 
affections  of  her  heart,  the  fall  of  her  brother, 
and  the  wreck  of  her  sister,  she  felt  herself  so 
stricken  and  hopeless  that  she  gave  herself  to 
drink.    No  longer  to  support  physical  exhaustion, 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL      105 

but  deliberately  to  drown  anguish  and  misery, 
she  drank  deeply,  regularly,  and  with  cunning. 

Her  condition  was  to  become  worse.  The 
financial  peril  of  her  family  impelled  her  into 
crime.  Her  mother  was  in  direst  need  of  money; 
she  held  in  her  hands  a  sum  of  money  entrusted 
to  her  by  her  employers  during  their  absence 
from  home;  instead  of  discharging  the  liabilities 
of  housekeeping  week  by  week,  she  let  the  bills 
accumulate  and  sent  the  money  home.  No  sooner 
had  she  taken  this  step  than  she  imagined  herself 
in  danger  of  arrest  and  imprisonment.  She 
started  at  sudden  sounds,  trembled  at  the  ring  of 
a  bell,  feared  every  letter  that  arrived  from  her 
employers. 

"What  fortitude  the  soul  contains 
That  it  can  so  endure 
The  accent  of  a  coming  foot, 
The  opening  of  a  door ! " 

It  was  useless  now  for  her  to  struggle  against 
the  temptation  of  drink.  To  drink  was  neces- 
sary. Life  was  impossible  without  it.  And  while 
she  sat  drinking  in  her  bedroom,  her  brain  was 
busy  with  a  hundred  terrifying  imaginations, 
destructive  of  will  power.  She  felt  herself  para- 
lysed and  doomed.  Like  a  rat  in  a  trap,  like  a 
fly  in  a  spider's  web,  like  a  lamb  in  a  slaughter- 
house, she  waited  for  the  sure  end.  It  would 
come,  she  thought,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly. 


106     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

The  husband  would  return  from  abroad  on  a 
matter  of  business,  and  ask  to  see  the  tradesmen's 
books.  The  tradesmen  might  have  hinted  sus- 
picions to  the  servants  and  they  might  have 
written  in  secret  to  the  mistress,  and  already  the 
police  might  have  been  told  to  arrest  her.  What 
would  become  of  her?  No  one  would  believe 
that  she  had  only  intended  to  borrow  the  money, 
that  she  had  meant  to  pay  it  back,  that  it  was 
not  upon  herself  she  had  spent  it. 

She  set  herself  to  raise  money  as  quickly  as 
possible  in  order  to  pay  back  the  embezzled  sum. 
It  was  a  difficult  task.  She  could  borrow  from 
friends,  she  could  sell  some  of  her  possessions, 
but  the  sum  was  a  large  one  and  her  resources 
were  limited.  In  the  midst  of  this  agonising 
experience,  when  she  must  have  been  on  the  very 
verge  of  distraction,  the  news  came  of  her  father's 
death. 

At  the  last  moment,  when  detection  would  have 
been  unavoidable,  she  received  an  unexpected 
sum  of  money  which  enabled  her  to  make  up 
the  criminal  deficiency.  Bat  this  piece  of  fortune 
could  not  relieve  a  mind  which  was  now  plunged 
again  into  fresh  despair  by  her  father's  death. 
The  tragedy  of  the  ruined  home  drew  the  blinds 
on  every  window  of  her  soul.  She  could  see 
nothing  outside  herself;  and  within  she  was  con- 
scious only  of  darkness  and  doom. 

Worse  things  were  yet   to,  come  upon   her. 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL      107 

Not  very  long  after  her  father's  death,  the  news 
came  that  her  sister  had  now  become  so  hope- 
lessly a  dipsomaniac  that  the  doctor  had  advised 
her  husband  to  seek  a  separation  and  to  obtain 
control  of  the  children.  Of  the  once  handsome 
and  idealised  brother  the  only  news  that  came 
told  of  a  deeper  descent  into  destitution  and 
misery. 

She  was  now  in  a  fresh  situation  as  governess, 
living  in  London,  and  keeping  her  mother  in 
humble  apartments  close  to  the  place  of  her  resi- 
dence. One  of  her  pupils  was  a  girl  of  sixteen 
with  an  evil  mind,  a  prurient  curiosity  in  men 
which  led  her  into  behaviour  out-of-doors  hor- 
ribly shocking  to  the  poor  dipsomaniac.  On  two 
or  three  occasions  she  had  to  speak  peremptorily 
to  this  girl.  An  enmity  was  established  between 
them.  Once,  when  the  parents  were  away  and 
she  was  in  sole  authority,  there  came  a  conflict 
between  her  and  the  pupil  which  ended  in  crisis. 
The  mother  returned  in  a  hurry.  On  one  side 
was  the  statement  of  the  governess,  on  the  other 
the  indignant  denial  of  a  lying  daughter,  sup- 
ported by  suborned  servants  and  the  clamorous 
testimony  of  the  other  children.  It  was  not  un- 
natural that  the  mother  decided  against  the 
governess. 

She  was  now  in  that  mood  when  it  seems  the 
whole  world  is  against  us.  She  tried  not  to 
drink,  and  for  some  weeks  she  was  able  to  do 


108     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

entirely  without  it;  but  in  the  end  the  craving 
had  its  way  with  her,  and  she  drank  steadily  for 
days  together. 

The  saddest  blow  of  all  came  at  this  time. 
The  brother  whom  she  had  adored  in  the  happy 
days  of  childhood,  and  who  still  had  an  affection- 
ate place  in  her  heart,  put  an  end  to  himself  after 
realising  that  the  dipsomaniac  is  beyond  the  reach 
of  human  salvation. 

Can  you  imagine  a  situation  more  charged  with 
disaster  and  despair?  Here  was  this  woman, 
out  of  work,  living  in  semi-poverty  with  a  penni- 
less mother,  knowing  that  her  sister  had  been 
pronounced  an  incurable  dipsomaniac,  knowing 
that  her  brother  had  destroyed  himself  through 
dipsomania,  and  knowing  better  than  she  knew 
anything  else  on  earth  that  she  herself  had  the 
same  poison  burning  in  her  blood; — what  could 
come  of  such  a  situation  but  ruin  and  death? 

She  went  one  day  to  stay  with  some  friends 
living  in  another  quarter  of  London,  from  whom 
she  hoped  to  hear  of  employment.  They  said 
to  her  one  evening,  "  Hugh  Price  Hughes  is 
preaching  at  our  chapel  to-night,  would  you  care 
to  hear  him?  "  More  to  please  these  friends  and 
to  keep  up  an  appearance  of  interest  in  religion, 
she  expressed  her  desire  to  go  with  them. 

She  has  quite  forgotten  what  was  the  text  of 
that  sermon,  or  what  was  the  nature  of  its  appeal, 
but  she  tells  me  that  it  had  a  most  startling  and 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     109 

dismaying  effect  upon  her  soul.  "  It  was  as  if," 
she  says,  "  he  knew  my  whole  story,  knew  the 
frightful  corruption  and  hypocrisy  of  my  heart, 
and  was  holding  up  a  mirror  before  me,  and 
saying — 'Look  at  yourself!  this  is  how  you 
appear  in  the  sight  of  God,  this  is  what  you  are! ' 
I  shall  never  forget  the  sense  of  guiltiness  which 
came  over  me.  It  was  the  first  time  I  knew 
myself  intimately  to  be  what  I  was.  It  made 
me  vile  in  my  own  eyes,  and  afraid — terribly 
afraid." 

She  was  greatly  troubled  by  this  sermon,  but 
for  so  long  had  she  masked  her  secret  self  from 
the  gaze  of  the  world  that  she  was  able  to  hide 
the  present  disquiet  from  her  friends.  That  night 
she  lay  sleepless  for  many  aching  hours,  not 
tortured  by  a  craving  for  drink,  but  agonised 
by  bitterest  self-knowledge.  Hitherto  there  had 
hung  between  her  consciousness  and  her  soul 
a  curtain  of  cloud,  a  net  of  twilight,  a  film  of 
shadows;  she  had  been  moving  like  one  in  a 
dream;  things  had  looked  at  her  through  a  mist 
and  she  had  touched  life  as  it  were  with  gloved 
hands.  But  now  in  a  white  light  she  saw  the 
image  of  her  inmost  self  steadily  regarding  her 
from  the  mirror  of  her  conduct.  She  was  aware 
of  life  with  a  sharp  reality.  She  was  conscious 
of  God  with  fear. 

So  violent  and  complete  was  this  awakening 
that  she  could  not  rest.    It  was  necessary  to  act. 


110     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

She  felt  herself  forced  towards  the  man  who 
had  shown  her  the  reflection  of  her  own  soul. 
She  must  go  to  him,  and  say,  "  I  am  what  you 
told  me  I  am:  tell  me  now  how  I  can  make 
myself  what  I  am  not:  you  have  awakened  me, 
it  must  be  you  who  can  transform  me." 

On  the  following  morning  she  made  an  excuse 
to  her  friends  and  set  out  to  discover  the  resi- 
dence of  Hugh  Price  Hughes.  He  was  living  in 
Taviton  Street,  from  which  address  he  so  long 
and  so  splendidly  organised  the  great  crusade 
of  the  West  London  Mission.  At  the  door  she 
hesitated  and  shrank,  but  her  need  was  great; 
she  summoned  up  courage  to  ring  the  bell.  She 
was  conducted  to  an  empty  room.  As  she  stood 
there,  waiting  in  unbroken  silence,  the  horror 
of  her  situation  struck  her  like  a  blow.  The 
handle  of  that  door  would  soon  turn,  a  man 
would  enter,  "  You  wish  to  see  me?"  he  would 
say,  and  he  would  look  at  her,  and  wait  for  her 
to  speak.  Could  she  tell  him  in  cold  blood  all 
the  darkness  and  vileness  of  her  heart? 

The  door  opened.     A  lady  entered. 

Something  of  relief  entered  the  heart  of  the 
distracted  woman.  She  was  reprieved.  There 
would  be  no  need  to  confess. 

"  My  husband  is  very  busy,  he  sends  you  his 
apologies;  can  I  take  him  a  message,  or  is  there 
anything  that  I  can  do  ?  " 

It  has  been  well  said,  "  The  Saviour  of  the 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     111 

world  laid  a  cool  hand  upon  the  brow  of  humanity 
as  it  throbbed  with  multitudinous  impulses,  and 
by  a  miracle  more  admirable  than  that  of  the 
Galilean  lake,  calmed  the  spiritual  tempest  into 
the  peace  of  God."  It  is  the  same  with  those  fine 
and  exquisite  souls  who  have  most  deeply  pos- 
sessed themselves  of  the  secret  of  their  Master; 
a  calm  issues  from  these  happy  ones  like  the 
breath  of  the  dawn,  one  is  conscious  in  them 
of  an  emanation  like  the  serenity  of  quiet  water, 
they  hush  the  tempest  and  rebuke  the  tumult 
of  our  hearts  by  the  tranquillity  that  dwells  in 
their  eyes  and  the  peace  that  lives  upon  their 
lips. 

The  poor  sinner  felt  herself  drawn  by  an 
irresistible  attraction  towards  that  gentle,  sweet- 
faced,  kindly  woman,  who  regarded  her  with  a 
wistful  inquiry,  whose  voice  sounded  like  a  caress, 
who  still  held  her  hand,  as  if  she  knew  how  great 
and  terrible  the  need  for  help.  In  a  moment  the 
flood-gates  of  her  soul  were  opened,  the  pent 
waters  of  agony  and  remorse,  black  with  sin 
and  heaving  with  despair,  poured  like  a  frenzied 
cataract  into  the  light  of  day,  and  all  her  shame 
and  ancient  reticence  were  swept  away  like  broken 
spars  and  shattered  stakes  on  this  tide  of  un- 
imaginable misery  which  sought  only  to  lose  itself 
in  the  ocean  of  love.  All  that  she  had  been,  all 
that  she  was,  all  that  she  had  done,  all  that  she 
feared  she  must   do  again  and   again  till  the 


11*     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

end  of  her  life — everything  in  her  heart  and 
mind,  uttered  itself  in  the  accents  of  a  soul's 
despair,  sparing  nothing,  hiding  nothing,  excusing 
nothing. 

And  while  she  spoke  she  was  conscious  through 
her  tears  of  calm  eyes  and  lips  of  serenity,  of 
a  soul  which  stood  outside  the  tempest  of  her 
mind,  and  which  regarded  her  with  pity  and 
affection. 

What  was  there  to  say?  She  had  confessed 
herself  a  hypocrite,  acknowledged  herself  a  thief, 
stigmatised  herself  a  drunkard.  What  hope 
would  the  kindest  and  ablest  of  doctors  have 
given  to  this  woman  of  over  thirty  years  of  age, 
whose  grandfather  and  father  were  in  drunkard's 
graves,  whose  brother  had  destroyed  himself  be- 
cause of  dipsomania,  whose  sister  was  separated 
from  her  husband  as  a  dipsomaniac,  and  who 
confessed  herself  with  pitiable  self-reproach  and 
self-despair  as  powerless  to  resist  the  driving 
fury  of  her  craving? 

The  answer  made  by  Mrs.  Price  Hughes  ~to 
this  sad  and  terrible  confeosion  was  a  very  old 
one,  but  one  that  science  does  not  even  yet  recog- 
nise as  a  cure  either  for  dipsomania  or  for  a 
broken  heart.  She  recommended  no  drugs,  she 
mentioned  the  reputation  of  no  hypnotist.  She 
told  the  miserable  and  despairing  woman  that 
the  love  of  God  is  tender  and  infinite,  that  the 
power  of  Christ  is  without  bounds,  and  that  the 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     113 

love  of  God  and  the  power  of  Christ  descend 
into  the  heart  of  a  sinner  on  the  stair  of  supplica- 
tion. 

She  was  not  shocked  by  the  story  of  the 
penitent,  never  once  did  she  show  signs  of  dis- 
gust or  impatience;  she  understood  all  that  was 
said,  and  all  that  was  left  unsaid,  and  at  the  end 
she  declared  the  certainty  of  her  conviction  that 
help  would  come,  that  there  was  help.  "  I  beg 
you  to  believe,"  she  pleaded,  "  that  God  is  not 
only  ready  to  help  you,  but  is  eager  to  save  you." 

They  prayed  together;  but  the  poor  woman 
went  away  with  darkness  in  her  heart.  She  had 
made  a  friend,  she  was  touched  by  the  nobility 
and  loving-kindness  of  this  friend,  and  she  felt 
that  if  help  did  come  it  would  be  through  her; 
but  she  had  no  faith,  she  looked  for  no  miracle, 
and  she  saw  no  light. 

Again  and  again  she  visited  the  house  in 
Taviton  Street.  On  one  of  these  visits  she  con- 
fessed that  she  still  drank.  "  I  had  not  thought," 
she  writes  to  me,  "  that  I  was  in  danger  from 
the  moderate  amount  I  was  then  drinking;  but 
after  much  persuasion  from  Mrs.  Hughes  I  again 
signed  the  pledge,  and  the  awful  struggles  I  had, 
to  be  true  to  my  promise,  revealed  to  me  the 
danger  I  had  been  in  and  the  terrible  hold  love 
of  drink  had  upon  me.  At  this  point  I  am  con- 
vinced that  nothing  but  my  love  for  dear  Mrs. 
Hughes,  and  my  terror  of  disappointing  her, 


114     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

kept  me  from  yielding  to  the  temptation  which 
again  and  again  assailed  me.  There  was  still 
darkness  in  my  soul,  nothing  but  a  grim  resolve 
not  to  yield  and  still  to  pray.  I  never,  never  can 
forget  the  agony  of  those  long  months  of  weary, 
hopeless  groping  in  the  dark — battling  all  the 
while  with  the  fierce  desire  to  drown  my  sorrow 
in  drink.  One  night,  while  watching  by  the 
sickbed  of  my  mother,  the  smell  of  brandy 
ordered  for  her  almost  overcame  my  resolution; 
I  actually  did  rise  to  pour  some  out,  but  as  I  did 
so  I  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Hughes's  photograph 
standing  on  the  table,  and  I  could  not  disappoint 
her." 

Since  she  wrote  these  words  I  have  met  her, 
and  she  has  told  me  more  fully  than  it  was 
possible  to  write  the  nature  of  her  sufferings. 
If  you  can  imagine  what  it  would  be  for  a  man 
consumed  by  hunger  to  see  surrounding  him  on 
every  side  and  within  reach  of  his  hands,  the 
very  food  he  most  desired  but  must  not  eat 
because  of  a  promise — you  may  have  some  notion 
in  your  mind  of  the  torment  suffered  by  this 
woman.  She  was  sometimes  brought  to  the  edge 
of  madness.  Never  a  hunted  creature  pursued 
by  hounds  of  death  suffered  as  she  did  at  this 
time. 

She  arrived  one  day  before  Mrs.  Price  Hughes 
full  of  despair.  She  had  prayed,  she  said,  but 
no  answer  had  come.    "  It  was  just  as  if,"  she 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     115 

said  to  me,  "  I  had  been  praying  to  brazen  skies; 
I  felt  that  the  whole  universe  was  full  of  silence; 
that  heaven  was  empty.  I  told  Mrs.  Hughes 
what  I  felt — how  I  had  gone  on  praying,  how 
I  had  struggled  and  was  still  struggling  to  keep 
my  pledge,  and  how  I  believed  that  my  hypocrisy 
had  sinned  me  out  of  God's  mercy,  and  that  He 
would  not  listen  to  my  prayer.  I  spoke  rather 
bitterly,  almost  angrily — for  I  felt  myself  quite 
at  the  end  of  my  strength.  But  more  than  bit- 
terness and  anger,  I  was  conscious  of  a  drowning 
despair.  I  felt  everything  giving  way  beneath 
me.  I  could  feel  ruin  and  degradation  closing 
about  me.  I  thought  it  was  useless  to  go  on 
trying.  When  I  had  finished  speaking,  Mrs. 
Hughes  looked  at  me  very  tenderly,  but  very 
sadly,  and  said  in  her  quiet,  earnest  way,  with 
that  haunting  voice  of  hers  full  of  a  gentle  re- 
buke :  '  Well,  dear,  I  can  do  no  more  for  you. 
It  is  useless  for  me  to  say  any  more.  You  know 
all  I  have  got  to  tell  you.'  Then  she  added,  with 
a  sudden  energy :  '  I  can't  think  why  you  don't 
respond.  There  is  your  Saviour,  standing  quite 
close  to  you,  stretching  out  loving,  pleading  hands 
to  you,  longing  to  save  you — and  you  turn  away 
and  won't  believe  Him.  If  you  turn  away  from 
Him,  how  can  /  help  you  ? '  It  is  not  easy  for 
me  to  tell  you  what  happened.  Before  she  had 
finished  speaking  I  saw  Christ,  just  as  she  had 
described  Him.     A  great  tumult  took  place  in 


116     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

my  mind.  It  was  like  a  crashing  of  masonry. 
There  was  no  joy,  and  no  peace,  but  an  absolute 
certainty.  I  knew  that  my  Redeemer  lived.  I 
knew  that  He  desired  to  save  me.  I  knew  that 
I  had  only  to  trust  Him  and  He  would  save  me. 
I  clutched  Mrs.  Hughes's  arm,  and  clung  to  her 
with  a  kind  of  frantic  terror.  She  told  me  after- 
wards that  the  clutch  of  my  hand  hurt  her  arm 
for  many  days;  I  was  like  one  possessed — not 
outwardly,  though  I  was  trembling,  but  in  my 
soul,  where  I  was  conscious  of  God.  All  I  could 
do  was  to  cling  to  Mrs.  Hughes,  and  wait  for 
the  tempest  in  my  soul  to  go.  You  see,  the  dawn 
had  come  not  as  it  comes  in  England,  tranquilly 
and  slowly,  but  as  it  comes  in  the  tropics,  sud- 
denly and  at  once,  with  a  complete  glory.  I  was 
certain.  Afterwards  there  was  joy  and  a  great 
peace,  but  then,  at  that  wonderful  moment,  every- 
thing in  my  soul  and  body  centred  in  the  single 
idea  of  absolute  certainty.  There  was  a  God. 
There  was  a  Christ.  There  was  forgiveness  for 
sin,  and  strength  to  withstand  temptation.  Like 
a  flash  the  light  had  come.  I  saw  how  I  was 
wronging  my  Lord,  and  piercing  His  loving  heart, 
and  at  that  moment  the  struggle  and  strife 
ended.  I  laid  down  my  burden  of  sorrow  and 
shame  at  His  feet.  I  felt  myself  forgiven.  I 
almost  fainted  under  the  revulsion  of  feeling,  and 
what  I  really  said  or  did  I  cannot  tell." 

One  is  aware  that  scepticism  will  feel  itself 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     117 

quite  able  to  explain  away  this  vision.  It  was 
not  objective;  it  was  subjective.  It  was  not  a 
fact;  it  was  a  phantasm.  The  same  explanation 
serves  for  the  vision  of  St.  Paul.  But  here  the 
most  superstitious  of  Christians  may  be  pardoned 
a  little  judicious  scepticism.  Is  one  seriously 
asked  to  believe  that  hallucination  gave  birth  to 
the  Gospel  to  the  Gentiles,  and  that  Christendom 
has  its  foundations  in  the  purely  subjective 
phantasm  of  a  solitary  missionary?  This  is 
surely  history  from  Bedlam.  Moreover,  if  the 
vision  be  accepted  as  subjective;  if  one  agrees 
that  no  objective  and  exterior  figure  stood  before 
the  soul  either  of  Saul  or  of  this  poor  penitent 
of  later  days;  if  one  owns  that  other  eyes  would 
have  seen  nothing,  that  the  vision  was  purely 
interior  and  secret — one  does  not  do  away  with 
miracle,  does  not  make  the  vision  false.  To 
manifest  oneself  to  the  eye  of  sense  does  not 
seem  so  great  a  thing  as  to  manifest  oneself  to 
the  eye  of  the  soul.  A  phenomenon  to  the  spirit- 
ual apprehension  is  no  less  a  miracle  than  a 
phenomenon  to  the  physical  organism.  Let  it  be 
said  that  it  was  the  thought  of  Christ  striking 
suddenly  on  the  consciousness  of  this  woman 
which  led  her  to  imagine  that  she  actually  beheld 
the  Figure  of  her  Lord;  even  so,  the  manifesta- 
tion may  have  been  supernatural  and  divine. 
Why  should  that  not  be  the  method  of  God? 
The  only  test  of  a  vision  is  its  consequence. 


118     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

< 

We  can  never  determine  the  nature  of  these  ap- 
pearances, or  satisfactorily  explain  the  character 
of  these  experiences;  but  we  can  judge  by  their 
effect  upon  those  who  assert  them  whether  they 
are  worthy  of  reverence  or  contempt. 

Science  has  declared  emphatically  that  dip- 
somania (not  drunkenness)  is  an  incurable 
disease.  Only  a  few  weeks  ago  I  was  discussing 
this  subject  with  one  of  the  best  physicians  of 
the  day  who  has  made  a  particular  study  of  the 
question.  He  told  me  that  no  dipsomaniac  can 
be  cured.  He  declared  it  as  a  dogma  that  the 
will  of  the  dipsomaniac  is  powerless  against  his 
obsession;  for  weeks,  for  months  even,  he  may 
strive — but  the  end  is  inevitable.  Without  ex- 
pressing any  opinion  on  the  nature  of  reli- 
gious conversions,  he  said  that  conversion  or 
hypnotism  might  certainly  cure  drunkenness, 
but  that  no  power  on  earth  could  cure  dipso- 
mania. 

Now,  what  must  be  the  order  of  a  vision  which 
cures  a  disease,  a  madness,  pronounced  by  science 
to  be  incurable?  What  must  we  think  of  a 
phantasm,  an  hallucination,  a  nothing,  which 
produces  in  a  human  being  an  effect  declared  by 
science  to  be  impossible?  If  science  is  right  in 
saying  that  these  visions  are  hysterical  and 
hallucinatory,  surely  science  is  also  right  in  say- 
ing that  dipsomania  is  incurable.  But  if  we  come 
upon  a  dipsomaniac  who  is  not  only  cured,  but 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     119 

cured  by  a  vision,  may  we  not  justly  think  that 
the  science  which  declares  the  malady  to  be  in- 
curable may  be  wrong  in  supposing  the  vision 
to  be  imaginary  ? 

Follow  the  rest  of  this  woman's  story  and 
decide  with  an  honest  judgment — the  hardest 
thing  to  come  by — whether  there  was  divinity 
or  hysteria  in  her  vision. 

Nearly  twenty  years  have  passed  away  since 
she  saw  that  vision  of  the  Saviour  of  the  world. 
They  have  been  years  of  many  sorrows  and  many 
trials;  they  have  been  spent  in  the  East  under  a 
burning  sky;  they  have  been  devoted  to  the  hard 
and  often  heartbreaking  work  of  teaching  heathen 
people  to  understand  the  beauty  of  the  Christian 
Idea ;  and  with  my  hand  on  my  heart  I  can  avow 
that  from  this  once  harried  and  broken  woman 
incomparable  blessing  has  flowed  into  hundreds 
of  human  hearts,  that  happier  and  brighter 
woman  I  have  seldom  met,  that  purer  heart  and 
nobler  disposition  I  have  seldom  encountered,  that 
better  Christian  and  truer  disciple  I  have  never 
known. 

But  there  is  a  degree  of  truth  in  what  science 
has  to  say  about  dipsomania.  For  fourteen  years 
after  her  illumination  this  good  and  noble  woman 
was  assailed  from  time  to  time  by  an  almost 
irresistible  temptation  to  drink.  These  terrible 
assaults,  which  often  prostrated  her,  would  come 
suddenly  and  in  the  most  unexpected  and  difficult 


120     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

situations.  She  has  been  torn  with  the  passion, 
suddenly  and  with  a  ghastly  ferocity,  at  the 
service  of  Communion;  the  touch  of  fermented 
wine  at  her  lips  has  been  sufficient  to  revive  all 
the  madness  of  her  longing;  she  has  had  to  flee 
for  her  life  from  the  highest  sacrament  of  her 
religion.  It  would  seem  that  the  vision  did  not 
supplant  her  poisoned  will  with  another,  but  en- 
dowed that  tampered  and  corrupted  will  with  an 
Idea  gradually  creating  an  increasing  power  of 
resistance.1  She  has  suffered  under  all  these 
assaults  grievously  and  quite  horribly,  but  never 
once  with  the  old  despair,  never  once  with  a  loss 
of  faith  in  God's  power  to  help  her.  And  now 
for  nearly  six  years  she  has  been  entirely  im- 
mune. She  is  rejoicing  in  this  deliverance  and 
is  quietly  hopeful  that  the  dark  days  are  over  and 
past  for  ever;  but  she  is  watchful  and  prayerful, 
knowing  that  even  if  temptation  should  return 
there  is  a  power  which  can  save  her,  but  that 
only  by  prayer — which  is  aspiration  winged  by 
faith — can  that  power  co-operate  with  the  human 
will. 

She  has  told  me  of  fits  of  melancholy  which 
seized  upon  her  from  time  to  time  long  after  her 
vision.  She  would  hear  a  voice  telling  her  that 
whatever  she  might  now  pretend  or  hope  to  be, 
she  had  once  descended  to  depths  of  shame,  and 
had  been  a  hypocrite,  dishonest,  and  a  drunkard. 
1  See  Note  D.  at  end  of  book. 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     121 

lAt  such  periods  she  would  always  be  assailed 
by  a  maddening  temptation  "  to  drown  remem- 
brance in  strong  drink."  "  It  seemed  sometimes," 
she  wrote  to  me,  "  that  I  would  give  my  very 
soul  for  one  draught.  I  have  again  and  again 
gone  out  from  the  room,  when  brandy  has  been 
in  use,  for  I  dared  not  trust  myself  near  it.  One 
night  I  threw  a  nearly  full  bottle  out  of  the 
bedroom  window,  and  only  thus  saved  myself 
from  yielding.  These  depths  of  dread  and 
despair  even  now  make  me  shudder  to  recall 
them,  and  it  seems  to  me  impossible  to  make 
another  human  soul  understand  or  realise  them, 
unless  indeed  by  a  similar  experience.  During  a 
severe  attack  of  influenza,  one  of  my  fellow 
missionaries,  thinking  only  to  soothe  my  cough, 
brought  me  an  egg  emulsion  into  which  some 
spirit  had  been  put.  Without  a  thought  I  drank 
some,  and  then  recognised  the  taste.  Even  that 
tiny  taste  roused  the  latent  desire,  and  God  only 
knows  what  I  suffered  for  some  days  after.  But 
I  can  truly  say  '  Thanks  be  to  God,  which  giveth 
us  the  victory,  through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.' 
Do  you  wonder  that  my  love  to  Him  is  so  deep 
and  strong  ?  " 

It  is  upon  this  personal  love  of  her  soul  that 
I  must  insist,  for  here  and  nowhere  else  is  the 
machinery  of  the  miracle  and  the  attestation  of 
Divinity.  Through  a  long  night  she  cried  with 
agonised  entreaty: 


122     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

"Wilt  Thou  not  make,  Eternal  Source  and  Goal! 
In  Thy  long  years,  life's  broken  circle  whole, 
And  change  to  praise  the  cry  of  a  lost  soul?" 

And  the  dawn  came;  she  saw  the  morning  light; 
and  now,  in  the  words  of  her  favourite  poet,  she 
thus  expresses  the  joy  and  certainty  and  peace 
of  her  faith: 

"  I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 
Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod; 
I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 
The  love  and  power  of  God. 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin. 

Yet  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 
And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 

To  one  fixed  trust  my  spirit  clings; 
I  know  that  God  is  good! 

And  Thou,  O  Lord!  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee ! " 

This  blind  faith  in  the  power  of  an  invisible 
God,  and  this  profound  love  for  a  personal  Christ, 
is  unintelligible  to  scepticism.  But  from  the 
dawn  of  history  has  there  not  been  a  groping  of 
human  hands  into  the  darkness  and  mystery  of 
Existence,  and  has  there  not  always  been  a  long- 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     123 

ing  of  the  human  heart  to  love  something  higher 
than  itself?  Are  we  to  take  no  account  of  these 
aspirations,  which  have  coloured  the  whole  orb 
of  human  history  and  given  to  the  life  evolved 
from  the  cell  all  its  poetry,  all  its  beauty,  and 
all  its  sublimity?  Because  Darwinism  cannot 
account  for  Beauty  and  Music  and  Mathematics, 
are  we  to  regard  these  things  as  superstitious, 
hallucinatory,  and  unworthy  of  a  man's  regard? 
Is  George  Stephenson  a  reality,  and  Shakespeare 
a  phantasm?  Are  we  to  set  our  affections  on 
Pasteur  and  Lister  and  Marconi,  and  not  on 
Michaelangelo,  Wordsworth,  and  St.  Augustine? 
How  many  will  be  left  of  the  immortals  if  we 
strike  out  the  name  of  every  man  who,  like  the 
great  English  poet,  has  said: 

"  And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things"? 

Is  materialism,  indeed,  the  way,  the  truth,  and 
the  life?  Has  it  overlooked  nothing,  examined 
everything,  and  explained  all  ?  Are  we  to  believe 
that  the  vast  legions  of  humanity  which  have 


124     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

passed  across  this  globe  affirming  that  God  an- 
swers prayer,  that  Christ  has  visited  their  hearts, 
and  that  they  are  assured  of  a  life  beyond  the 
grave — are  we  to  believe  that  this  great  and 
glorious  host  was  but  a  phantom  army,  follow- 
ing a  Chimsera,  deluded  and  deluding?  Surely 
it  would  be  well  for  modern  scepticism  to  aban- 
don this  colossal  arrogance  out  of  mere  modesty, 
to  become,  if  it  is  possible,  "  as  unassuming  as 
Socrates,"  and  to  bring  itself  to  that  condition 
of  realism  wherein  one  is  able  to  perceive  that 
the  soul  of  St.  Paul,  the  heart  of  Shakespeare,  and 
the  mind  of  Milton  are  as  greatly  and  as  truly 
facts  of  existence  as  atoms  in  metals,  corpuscles 
in  blood,  and  fossils  in  rocks. 

For  nearly  two  thousand  years  men  and 
women  of  high  intelligence  and  great  range  of 
feeling  have  professed  their  conviction  that  God 
answers  prayer  and  that  Christ  confers  blessing. 
They  have  persisted  in  these  affirmations  against 
the  obstruction  of  the  world,  in  the  face  of 
disaster,  and  amidst  the  derision  of  scepticism. 
And  from  the  lives  of  these  men  and  women  have 
come  the  highest  ideals  and  purest  poetry  of 
human  existence. 

Here  in  our  own  day  we  have  a  witness  to  this 
ancient  faith.  A  woman  marked  out  by  destiny 
for  a  terrible  destruction,  becomes  through  the 
love  and  tenderness  of  a  Christ-minded  friend, 
healed   of   an   incurable   affliction,    transformed 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL      1525 

from  misery  and  dejection  to  happiness  and 
ecstasy,  and  gives  herself  with  an  ever-increasing 
satisfaction  of  soul  to  the  work  of  this  same 
Christ,  so  improbable  and  unreal  to  the  dark 
mind  of  infidelity.  Suppose  that  she,  too,  had 
embraced  the  agnosticism  of  materialism — what 
must  have  been  her  fate  ?  And  do  not  the  nobility 
of  her  life,  the  luminous  brightness  of  her  soul, 
and  the  fervent  gratitude  of  her  heart,  convince 
us  even  more  than  the  miracle  of  her  healing 
that  she  is  following  no  ghost  and  worshipping 
no  Phantasm?  Is  joy  the  child  of  hysteria,  and 
nothingness  the  cause  of  peace? 

She  has  given  me  a  book  of  Whittier's  poems, 
and  her  pen  has  traced  lines  of  emphasis  under 
certain  of  the  verses  which  express  her  aspira- 
tion and  her  view  of  the  Christian  life.  Con- 
sider the  purity  and  peace  of  a  soul  which  after 
such  a  tempest  as  she  has  known  can  settle  itself 
in  these  words  and  live  them  in  her  life : 

"  If  there  be  some  weaker  one, 
Give  me  strength  to  help  him  on; 
If  a  blinder  soul  there  be, 
Let  me  guide  him  nearer  Thee. 

•  •  •  • 

Clothe  with  life  the  weak  intent, 
Let  me  be  the  thing  I  meant." 

I  would  it  were  in  my  power  to  breathe  into 
these  pages  the  sweet  mirth  and  happy  bright- 
ness of  this  soul  which  was  once  plunged  deep 


126     THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

into  the  abyss  of  dejection.  I  wish  that  I  could 
give  to  these  last  words  something  of  the  spell 
and  fragrance  of  her  character,  something  of 
that  blithe  and  buoyant  gladness,  which  shines 
in  her.  eyes,  sounds  in  her  voice,  and  communi- 
cates itself  in  all  the  thousand  kindnesses  which 
make  her  busy  life.  For  it  is  the  happiness  of 
her  soul  which  seems  to  me  the  most  compelling 
proof  of  the  miracle.  She  is  so  cheerful,  even 
so  merry;  so  gracious  and  pleasant;  so  delighted 
by  the  simplest  happiness  of  others,  so  devoted 
to  children,  and  so  happy  in  their  mirth — that 
one  is  tempted  to  doubt,  not  the  miracle,  but  the 
madness  and  the  melancholy  which  once  all  but 
destroyed  her.  Is  it  not  a  beautiful  thought  that 
this  woman  is  especially  loved  by  children,  and 
that  her  influence  for  good  in  the  East  is  chiefly 
among  young  girls  who  learn  from  her  the  story 
of  Christ  and  who  adore  her  as  a  mother?  Those 
who  are  acquainted  with  children  will  know  that 
their  affection  is  seldom  given  to  the  wicked  and 
never  to  the  melancholy. 

"  I  feel  sometimes,"  she  told  me,  "  almost 
overwhelmed  by  my  consciousness  of  God's  bless- 
ing. That  He  should  have  saved  me  is  mercy 
enough,  and  that  He  should  have  given  me  work 
to  do  for  Him  is  blessing  enough;  but  that  He 
should  have  given  me  the  love  of  children,  and 
placed  it  in  my  hands  to  prepare  these  children 
for  His  Kingdom — this  overwhelms  me.     You 


THE  VISION  OF  A  LOST  SOUL     127 

can  understand  how  deeply  I  love  my  Saviour, 
and  how  it  is,  when  I  am  quite  alone  after  the 
day's  work,  I  often  find  my  eyes  full  of  tears  and 
my  heart  almost  breaking  with  gratitude." 

Among  the  marked  verses  in  the  book  which 
she  has  given  me  I  find : 

11  To  Him,  from  wandering  long  and  wild, 
I  come,  an  over-wearied  child, 
In  cool  and  shade  His  peace  to  find 
Like  dew-fall  settling  on  my  mind." 


BETRAYED 

AS  pretty  and  pleasing  a  little  girl  as  ever 
began  life  without  adequate  knowledge  of 
the  world  passed  one  day  from  the  shelter 
of  an  English  orphanage   for  the  children  of 
soldiers   into   the   very   dangerous   and   difficult 
experience  of  domestic  service. 

She  gave  every  promise  of  growing  into  a 
pure  and  happy  womanhood.  She  was  by  nature 
bright  and  intelligent;  by  training,  industrious 
and  orderly.  There  was  nothing  at  all  in  her 
appearance,  nothing  at  all  in  her  mind,  to  suggest 
the  brazen  face  and  the  bold  nature  of  a  public 
woman.  It  would  have  shocked  even  a  man 
of  the  world  to  think  for  a  moment  that  this 
so  virtuous  and  so  innocent-looking  girl — this 
girl  whose  candour,  honesty,  and  respectability 
showed  not  only  in  the  neatness  of  her  dress 
and  in  the  general  note  of  her  appearance, 
but  in  the  clear  goodness  of  her  eyes  and  the 
modest  manner  of  her  speaking — could  ever  see 
moral  corruption,  could  ever  descend  to  the 
sink  of  iniquity,  could  ever  illustrate  the  pain 
of  Shakespeare  for  "  maiden  virtue  rudely 
strumpeted." 

128 


BETRAYED  129 

But  the  orphanage,  which  had  stood  to  her 
for  father,  mother,  and  home,  which  had  trained 
her  so  carefully  to  be  industrious  and  pains- 
taking, which  had  given  her  a  definite  bent 
towards  respectability,  and  had  distilled  into  her 
mind  at  least  something  of  the  fragrance  of  re- 
ligion, had  forgotten  to  warn  her  against  tempta- 
tion by  teaching  her  to  know  the  realities  of  this 
hard  world  and  to  expect  the  oppugnance  of  this 
cruel  life.  She  was  full  innocent  in  experience; 
too  innocent  in  knowledge. 

It  was  the  very  purity  and  sweetness  of  her 
nature  which  brought  her  headlong  to  a  terrible 
ruin.  She  trusted  the  man  who  made  love  to 
her,  trusted  him  so  innocently  and  divinely  that 
she  could  think  no  evil  of  him,  and  when  he 
left  her,  and  her  baby  was  near  its  birth,  so 
ghastly  and  shattering  was  her  disillusion  that 
she  swung  clean  round  from  innocence  and  pur- 
ity, and  headed  straight  for  pravity  and  a  hopeless 
despair. 

Nothing  is  surer  than  this,  that  the  rate  of 
a  woman's  progress  towards  profligacy  is  almost 
invariably  the  swifter  and  the  more  despairing 
according  to  the  measure  of  her  original  inno- 
cence. It  is  this  knowledge  of  a  woman's  nature 
which  makes  one  understand  the  tremendous 
earnestness  of  that  awful  warning  written  in 
three  of  the  gospels :  "  Whoso  shall  offend  one 
of  these  little  ones  which  believe  in  Me,  it  were 


130  BETRAYED 

better  for  him  that  a  millstone  were  hanged 
about  his  neck,  and  that  he  were  drowned  in 
the  depth  of  the  sea."  I  invite  any  man  dis- 
posed to  take  a  tolerant  and  casual  view  of 
sin  to  follow  in  this  narrative  the  consequences 
of  an  act  for  which  the  world  is  most  ready- 
to  make  excuses  and  find  forgiveness.  Let  any 
man  whose  mind  is  poisoned  by  a  foolish  cos- 
mopolitanism, or  whose  knowledge  of  science 
leads  him  to  think  that  "  we  make  too  much  of 
sin,"  answer  the  question  when  he  has  come  to 
the  end  of  this  true  story,  Is  it  a  light  thing 
to  seduce  innocence,  to  betray  faith,  and  to 
destroy  purity? 

Because  she  had  been  so  happy  in  her  virtue 
and  good  name,  this  girl — turned  out  of  service 
to  have  her  baby  born  in  a  hospital — became 
infinitely  guilty  and  shameful  in  her  own  eyes. 
She  hated  herself,  felt  in  every  fibre  of  her 
being  the  smirch  and  scarlet  of  pollution,  and 
believed  it  hopeless  and  impossible  that  ever  she 
could  be  pure  again. 

The  child  died,  and  she  stood  alone  in  the 
world;  a  girl  with  the  brand  of  shame  upon  her 
brow,  without  a  friend  of  any  kind,  surrounded 
by  a  righteousness  which  opened  no  door  to  her 
and  an  iniquity  which  stretched  from  every  side 
welcoming  hands.  She  was  not  only  shame-full, 
not  only  in  despair  of  herself;  she  was  also 
bitter  with  cynicism.     She  had  been  betrayed. 


BETRAYED  131 

She  began  the  dreadfullest  life  to  which  a 
woman  can  come — the  easiest  in  every  city  of 
the  world  for  any  forlorn  and  despairing  girl — 
almost  as  innocently  as  she  had  gone  into  domes- 
tic service.  She  thought  it  would  be  possible 
to  walk  about  the  open  streets  and  encounter 
some  man  who  would  provide  for  her  and  be 
as  a  husband,  but  without  the  law.  She  had 
no  knowledge  either  of  the  great  riot  and  luxury 
at  one  end  of  this  scale  or  of  the  awful  misery 
and  destitution  at  the  other. 

It  was  her  experience  to  ascend  from  some- 
where in  the  middle  of  this  scale  of  sin  to  its 
mocking  highest.  She  was  young  and  pretty  and 
honest.  She  was  different  from  most  of  the 
others.  The  coarsest  men  were  disposed  to  let 
her  alone;  the  less  brutal  were  inclined  to  be 
interested  in  her.  One  of  these  men  more  or 
less  fulfilled  the  original  idea  in  her  mind  of 
a  husband  outside  the  law.  He  took  rooms  for 
her,  provided  her  with  money,  set  her  in  the 
way  of  making  a  figure  at  music-halls  and  supper- 
rooms  and  race-meetings.  The  excitement  of 
this  fashionable  existence  gradually  took  pos- 
session of  her  whole  being — all  but  one  little 
corner  of  the  conscience — and  she  began  at  last 
to  fret  no  longer  at  lost  innocence  or  to  weep 
over  the  simple  peace  of  her  finished  maiden- 
hood. 

She  was  waited  upon  by  the  daughter  of  her 


i32  BETRAYED 

landlady,  a  little  girl  who  was  in  every  way 
the  opposite  of  that  which  she  herself  had  once 
been.  This  child  was  a  veritable  little  slattern, 
and  impudent,  and  daring,  and  careless  of  all 
authority  and  decency.  The  fashionable  woman 
of  easy  virtue  occasionally  beguiled  a  tedious 
interval  in  her  engagements  by  talking  to  this 
little  brat;  she  was  kind  to  her,  too,  making 
her  presents  of  money,  and  sweets,  and  clothes; 
very  often  she  would  say  things  intended  to 
warn  the  child  against  the  misery  and  wretched- 
ness of  what  must  have  seemed  in  her  eyes  an 
entirely  luxurious  and  idle  life.  She  would  very 
gladly  have  made  a  friend  of  this  little  untidy 
girl,  but  there  was  something  hard  and  mocking 
in  the  child's  nature  which  always  prevented 
intimacy. 

There  is  one  relief  to  which  these  lonely 
women,  particularly  the  English,  sooner  or  later 
go  for  comfort  and  oblivion.  Drink  not  only 
helps  them  to  keep  up  the  frightful  lie  of  a 
"gay  life";  it  ministers  to  their  hunger  and 
thirst  after  forgetfulness  in  the  long  hours  of 
their  loneliness  when  memory  is  free  to  work 
without  distraction  and  conscience  can  make 
itself  heard.  But  it  is  this  very  means  of  appear- 
ing vivacious  and  gay,  which  sooner  than  any- 
thing else,  sooner  even  than  the  terrible  life 
itself,  dislodges  them  from  a  circumstance  in 
which  it  is  most  easy  to  be  merry. 


BETRAYED  133 

She  began  to  drink  in  secret,  and  presently 
she  found  herself  neglected  by  former  friends, 
and  forced  to  look  about,  sometimes  very 
anxiously,  for  the  means  of  daily  bread.  One 
night  she  was  returning  home  from  the  emptying 
midnight  streets,  when  the  Sister  of  the  West 
London  Mission,  whose  uniform  and  purpose 
were  just  becoming  known  to  her,  gave 
her  a  flower,  said  a  kind  word  to  her,  and 
passed  on  when  she  saw  that  there  was  no 
response. 

From  that  day,  for  six  years  of  bitterness  and 
misery,  the  once  perfectly  pure  and  wholesome 
girl  who  might  so  easily  but  for  the  crime  of 
one  man  have  been  all  that  we  reverence  and 
honour  in  our  mothers,  walked  the  hard  streets 
of  London  and  descended  almost  to  the  last  ex- 
tremity of  the  harlot's  life.  Her  days  of  pros- 
perity were  gone.  The  comfortable  lodging,  the 
fine  clothes,  the  fashionable  appearance  in  the 
box  of  a  music-hall,  the  excitement  of  a  race- 
meeting,  the  gaiety  of  a  crowded  supper-room, 
the  pleasure  of  visits  to  seaside  and  foreign  cities 
— all  were  gone  now,  gone  with  the  full  purse 
and  the  generous  friends,  and  she  was  become — 
still  so  young  and  pleasant  to  look  upon — a  walker 
of  the  streets,  a  hunter  for  food,  and  a  pariah 
in  fear  of  police. 

If  her  betrayer  could  have  seen  her  now,  what 
would  he  have  felt  in  his  heart?     If  he  could 


134  BETRAYED 

have  seen  the  change  in  her  face,  all  the  inno- 
cence sponged  out,  all  the  faith  and  childhood 
driven  from  her  eyes,  all  the  kindness  and  purity 
destroyed  from  her  lips;  if  he  could  have  seen 
her  accosting  smile  repeated  a  thousand  times 
backwards  and  forwards  on  the  midnight  streets; 
if  he  could  have  heard  her  laughter  in  the  tavern, 
watched  the  reel  of  her  steps  homeward,  seen  the 
tears  of  her  misery  wet  upon  the  pillow,  and 
penetrated  to  the  ruin  and  despair  of  her  harden- 
ing heart — would  he  have  thought  that  he  had 
done  a  small  thing,  would  he  have  said  easily 
that  it  is  the  metier  of  God  to  forgive,  would 
he  have  felt  unafraid  to  meet  the  judgment  of 
God? 

Again  and  again,  bitterly  and  with  many  tears, 
she  lamented  her  life  and  wished  to  God  that 
she  had  never  been  born.  But  this  remorse  had 
no  movement  towards  the  repentance  of  religion. 
She  never  felt  that  there  was  pity  for  her  in 
heaven  or  that  in  her  own  poor  wounded  heart 
there  was  possibility  of  love  towards  God.  She 
was  simply  sorry  for  having  been  such  a  fool, 
simply  angry  with  herself  for  having  made  such 
a  wild  shipwreck  of  her  life,  simply  wretched 
and  miserable  because  it  was  so  difficult  and 
heartbreaking  to  make  a  living.  Everything  that 
might  have  made  her  penitent  and  clamorous  for 
Heaven's  love  had  been  destroyed  by  her  be- 
trayer with  the  ruin  of  her  innocence. 


BETRAYED  135 

She  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  when  one  night, 
tired  of  walking  up  and  down  the  crowded  streets, 
sick  of  looking  up  with  forced  invitation  at  the 
face  of  every  man  she  passed — in  a  frame  of 
mind  no  more  despairing  or  disgustful  than  any 
she  had  known  for  many  a  long  month — the 
poor,  weary  girl,  making  sure  that  no  police- 
men were  about — went  and  stood  for  mere  rest 
of  body  in  one  of  the  doorways  of  Piccadilly, 
her  eyes  looking  up  and  down  the  street  for 
the  chance  of  employment,  her  thoughts  more 
occupied  with  her  tired  body  than  with  her 
wretched  soul. 

As  she  stood  there,  a  woman  walking  slowly 
along  the  thinning  pavement,  suddenly  paused, 
and  then  quietly  approached  her.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  uniform  and  carried  a  single  flower 
in  her  hand.  The  girl  in  the  doorway  recog- 
nised her  by  the  light  of  the  street  lamp.  It 
was  Sister  Mildred  of  the  West  London  Mission 
— a  name  she  had  often  heard  in  taverns  and  at 
street  corners,  a  personality  of  which  she  had 
heard  favourable  gossip  and  one  or  two  tales 
which    had   made    a   slight    impression   on   her 

mind. 

The  Sister  came  close  to  her.     "  This  is  my 
last  flower,"   she  said;    "  would  you  like  it?' 
The  girl  in  the  doorway  took  the  simple  gift, 
and  said,  "  It's  six  years  since  I  was  given  a 
flower."     Then  she  added,  "  It's  six  years  ago 


136  BETRAYED 

since  a  respectable  woman  spoke  to  me."  The 
Sister  looked  at  her.  "  Who  gave  you  the 
flower  six  years  ago?"  "The  Sister  who  was 
here  before  you?"  "And  you  are  still  here?" 
"  Yes,  still  here."  "  You  are  not  very  happy ; 
can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  "No;  there's 
nothing  to  be  done."  "Perhaps  there  is;  think 
about  it,  at  any  rate;  you  know  where  I  am  to 
be  found,  don't  you? — come  and  see  me  some 
day;  come  to  tea  with  me?" 

The  Sister  passed  on;  the  woman  returned  to 
her  lodging,  looking  for  business,  with  the  flower 
in  her  hand. 

Some  months  afterwards  the  Sister  was  sitting 
in  her  flat  when  a  ring  came  at  the  bell,  and 
opening  the  door  she  saw  a  girl  standing  there 
whom  she  did  not  immediately  recognise.  She 
invited  her  in  without  a  question,  and  when  they 
were  together  in  the  sitting-room,  the  girl  said, 
"  I  don't  suppose  you  remember  me,  but  you  once 
gave  me  a  flower  in  Piccadilly,  and  I  told  you 
it  was  six  years  since  a  respectable  woman  had 
spoken  to  me.  You  asked  me  if  you  could  do 
anything  for  me,  and  I  said  '  No.'  You  said 
that  perhaps  you  could,  and  invited  me  to  come 
and  see  you.  I  have  come  now.  I  want  you 
to  help  me.  The  flower  you  gave  me  has  brought 
me  here.    It  wouldn't  let  me  rest." 

Then,  her  poor  broken  heart  soothed  by  the 
love  and  tenderness  of  the  Sister,  she  told  the 


BETRAYED  137 

story  of  her  new  birth;  and  for  beauty  and 
simplicity,  this  story  is  matchless  in  all  I  have 
read  or  heard  of  conversion. 

The  girl  had  returned  to  her  lodging,  miserable 
and  tired,  and  after  placing  the  flower  in  water, 
had  gone  to  bed  and  slept.  When  she  woke 
in  the  morning,  the  first  thing  to  meet  her  gaze 
was  the  flower  of  Piccadilly.  She  looked  at 
it,  and  recalled  the  incident  of  the  doorway. 
She  thought  of  what  the  Sister  had  said  to  her, 
and  of  what  she  had  said  to  the  Sister.  Then 
she  thought  of  the  flower  itself.  She  looked 
at  it,  let  her  eyes  rest  upon  it,  and  became 
gradually  aware  that  she  was  interested  only  in 
one  thing  about  it.  The  flower  was  white.  The 
idea  of  this  whiteness  pervaded  her  conscious- 
ness. She  surrendered  all  direction  and  control 
of  thought  to  receive  into  her  mind  the  single 
idea  of  whiteness  shining  from  the  flower  at 
her  bedside.  It  interested  her  to  dwell  without 
effort  upon  the  thought  of  whiteness. 

Then,  quite  slowly  and  without  violence  of 
any  kind,  there  was  a  gentle  and  almost  un- 
conscious transition  of  thought  from  a  mere 
dreamy  contemplation  of  the  flower  to  the 
gradual  establishment  of  a  contrast.  She  made 
a  contrast  of  the  whiteness  of  that  flower  and 
the  spreading  darkness  of  her  own  soul.  She 
said  to  herself,   "  I   was   once  white,   like  this 

flower," 


138  BETRAYED 

A  deep  sadness  took  possession  of  her.  She 
was  unable  to  prevent  tears  from  rising  to  her 
eyes.  She  looked  at  the  white  flower  through 
a  mist  of  pain,  and  said  to  herself,  "  I  wish 
I  could  be  pure."  Then  she  covered  her  eyes 
with  her  hands,  turned  her  face  to  the  pillow, 
and  wept.  It  was  impossible;  she  never  could 
be  pure  again. 

She  told  the  Sister  afterwards  that  when  she 
went  out  into  the  streets  to  earn  her  bread  the 
thought  of  the  white  flower  was  insistent  in  her 
mind,  like  the  voice  of  a  guardian  angel,  like 
the  unsilenceable  whisper  of  conscience.  It  made 
her  work  a  ghastly  torment  of  the  soul.  She  tried 
to  get  rid  of  this  obsession  in  the  company  of 
other  women  gathered  in  a  wine-bar.  It  re- 
mained. She  drank,  she  listened  to  stories  of 
last  night's  adventures,  she  tried  to  laugh,  she 
kept  a  forced  smile  upon  her  lips,  but  her 
thoughts  were  held  by  the  same  persistent  idea. 
It  would  give  her  no  rest. 

She  went  out  into  the  traffic  of  the  streets. 
In  the  midst  of  it  all  she  was  still  pursued  by 
the  thought  of  the  white  flower.  It  was  like 
"  The  Hound  of  Heaven,"  unescapable  and  piti- 
less; she  could  not  dream  that  the  divine  Voice 
would  ever  say  to  her — 

"All  which  thy  child's  mistake 
Fancies  as  lost,  I  have  stored  for  thee  at  home : 
Rise,  clasp  My  hand,  and  come." 


BETRAYED  139 

It  was  almost  as  a  mock  of  her  foulness,  almost 
as  a  scorn  of  her  unalterable  shame,  that  the 
thought  of  the  white  flower  followed  every  step 
she  took  and  pursued  her  haunted  way — 

"With  unperturbed  pace 
Deliberate   speed,   majestic   instancy." 

And  yet  all  the  time  she  was  dimly  conscious 
of  a  hope,  timorously  aware  of  some  shadowy 
possibility  of  escape.  The  thought  of  the  white 
flower  might  mock  her  ruined  soul;  but,  could 
she  not  in  some  way  shake  away  from  her  life 
its  present  misery  and  at  the  same  time  dislodge 
from  her  mind  its  present  obsession?  For  days, 
for  weeks,  for  months,  long  after  the  flower  was 
dead,  she  wrestled  with  this  obsession  and 
brooded  on  this  hope;  and  at  last  she  saw  her 
road  clear  to  a  way  of  escape.  She  abandoned 
the  streets.  She  took  a  humble  room  and  be- 
came a  "  sempstress "  to  a  man  living  in  the 
Temple.  This  was  her  one  way  of  escape,  and 
she  thought  that  she  was  no  longer  horrible  and 
base,  no  longer  disreputable  and  abandoned,  but 
a  woman  doing  the  best  she  could  with  a  ruined 
life. 

She  was  satisfied  with  the  change  and  con- 
nected it  with  the  flower,  which  had  become 
no  longer  a  torture  to  her  thoughts,  but  a  fra- 
grance to  her  amended  life.  But  dwelling  on 
this  flower,  she  saw  presently  in  her  mind,  with 


140  BETRAYED 

a  gradually  increasing  light,  connection  between 
its  whiteness  and  the  religion  of  the  woman 
who  had  given  it  to  her.  She  looked  away  from 
the  contrast  of  the  flower's  white  purity  and 
her  own  iniquity,  and  perceived  that  the  white- 
ness of  the  flower  shone  in  her  memory  with 
the  human-kindness  and  the  loving  purity  of 
the  giver.  No  longer  a  contrast;  she  matched 
the  white  flower  of  Piccadilly  with  the  white 
flower  of  a  blameless  life. 

Then  it  was,  after  all  these  months  of  her 
flower-haunted  existence,  that  she  felt  in  her 
heart  a  yearning  to  go  and  see  the  Sister  and 
tell  her  what  the  flower  had  done.  Remorse 
had  vanished,  a  peace  like  the  calm  of  forgive- 
ness had  entered  her  soul.  She  no  longer  fre- 
quented taverns,  she  no  longer  walked  the  streets, 
she  no  longer  mixed  with  abandoned  women, 
and  she  no  longer  cared  anything  for  the  ex- 
citement and  dissipation  of  the  harlot's  life. 
She  had  become  religious.  She  said  her  prayers; 
she  desired  the  mercy  of  God  and  the  love  of 
Christ. 

There  had  never  been  throughout  this  long 
and  gentle  process  of  spiritual  change  the  least 
degree  of  violence,  the  least  degree  of  turbulence. 
Quite  simply  and  naturally  and  evenly  she  had 
passed  from  a  seemingly  inevitable  indifference 
to  religion;  and  as  simply,  naturally,  and  evenly 
she  had  come  to  a  quiet  pleasure  in  what  she 


BETRAYED  141 

deemed  the  only  virtuous  life  now  possible  for 
her  soul  on  earth.  A  white  flower  had  effected 
this  immense  change.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  exhortation  of  a  preacher,  terror  of  hell,  or 
fear  of  God.  As  invisibly  as  fragrance,  the 
whiteness  of  the  flower  had  passed  into  her  soul, 
and  gently,  tenderly,  and  sweetly  turned  it  to 
God.  She  was  a  man's  mistress,  but  she  was 
religious. 

We  witness  a  miracle  quite  different  from  the 
cataclysmic  effects  of  a  sudden  remorse.  It  is  a 
case  of  conversion  in  which  every  man  who  has 
fought  the  battle  of  the  soul  may  see  at  least 
something  of  his  own  experience.  "A  sunset 
touch,  a  fancy  from  a  flower-bell,  some  one's 
death."  The  smallest  accident,  the  slightest 
emergence,  the  most  trivial  occurrence — "  And 
that's  enough  for  fifty  hopes  and  fears."  Per- 
haps for  every  record  of  a  violent  conversion, 
there  are  in  the  knowledge  of  the  angels  a 
million  instances  of  silent  change  and  gradual 
approach  to  God.  One  does  not  live  very  long 
without  knowing  that  the  great  drama  of  life 
is  enacted  neither  in  the  columns  of  the  news- 
papers nor  at  the  penitent's  form  at  revival  meet- 
ings, but  in  the  unbroken  silence  and  impene- 
trable solitude  of  the  human  heart.  And  it  is 
none  the  less  a  miracle  that  the  light  which  strikes 
suddenly  and  blindingly  into  the  soul  of  some, 
should  steal  gradually  and  almost  invisibly  into 


U2  BETRAYED 

the  hearts  of  others.  To  be  born  again  is  not 
always  to  experience  a  sudden  and  vehement 
alteration  of  habit  and  thought;  far  more  often 
is  it  a  growth  in  character  so  smooth  and  tranquil 
that  the  converted  soul  can  never  declare  to  itself 
a  particular  moment  or  a  particular  experience 
in  which  the  surrender  was  made  and  the  illumi- 
nation became  conscious. 

The  true  criterion  of  conversion  is  its  effect 
upon  life  and  character;  by  that  standard  alone 
can  we  measure  the  extent  of  the  miracle.  In 
this  case  there  can  be  no  question  of  the  miracle. 
Sister  Mildred,  who  stands  for  a  reproach  to 
the  public  women  of  West  London,  but  who  is 
their  truest  friend  when  they  turn  away  from 
sin,  is  nothing  of  a  sentimentalist,  nothing  of 
a  mere  humanitarian.  She  did  not  receive  this 
penitent  Magdalen  with  tearful  embraces  and 
words  of  an  hysterical  emotionalism.  She  kept 
her  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  the  girl's  face,  listened 
to  her  story,  and  acknowledged  the  influence  of 
the  white  flower.  Then  she  said,  "  But  you  will 
not  stop  where  you  are? — you  will  give  up  this 
man  and  live  a  pure  life,  will  you  not?'  The 
poor  girl  was  startled  and  hurt.  Was  she  not 
living  a  pure  life?  Had  she  not  given  up  a  life 
of  shame?  She  said  her  prayers,  she  wanted  to 
be  good,  she  would  rather  die  than  go  back. 
Surely  she  was  respectable. 

Then  the  Sister  said  something  which  reveals 


BETRAYED  143 

the  immense  difference  of  Christianity  from  any 
other  religion  under  the  sun :  "  But  you  are 
injuring  the  man's  soul." 

The  girl  was  quick  in  reply,  so  sure  of  her 
justification :  "  But  I  love  him !  He  is  not  like 
other  men.  He  is  a  gentleman.  He  is  quite 
good  and  kind.     I  would  give  my  life  for  him." 

"  If  you  love  him,"  said  the  Sister,  her  eyes 
still  fixed  steadily  upon  the  girl's  face,  "  why 
do  you  do  him  harm?  " 

And  from  that  point  she  spoke  of  religion. 
The  mere  question  of  morality  was  undiscussed, 
was  passed  over  and  neglected  as  a  matter  of 
no  account.  Not  in  the  region  of  controversy, 
where  morality  must  always  reside,  did  the  Sister 
permit  this  awakening  soul  to  hang  in  the  twi- 
light of  obscurity.  Very  gently,  very  tenderly, 
but  with  an  irresistible  leading,  she  carried  that 
soul  into  the  full  light  of  unquestionable  re- 
ligion, made  her  think  not  of  comparative  re- 
spectability nor  of  disputable  standards  of  con- 
duct, but  of  spiritual  responsibility,  of  immor- 
tality, of  God's  provided  way  for  the  salvation 
and  ultimate  holiness  of  the  human  soul.  The 
penitent  girl,  content  with  her  renunciation  of 
profligacy  and  comfortable  in  her  devotion  to  a 
man  who  was  kind  and  good  to  her,  who  had 
felt  a  blessing  in  her  soul  and  a  restfulness  in 
her  heart  from  the  influence  of  the  white  flower, 
looked  no  longer  on  the  manner  of  her  life  from 


144  BETRAYED 

the  world's  shifting  and  transient  point  of  view, 
studied  no  more  her  way  of  living  from  the  de- 
sires of  her  own  heart  or  the  ideas  of  her  own 
mind,  but  beheld  her  soul  from  the  high  altitudes 
of  divine  reality,  and  could  not  be  complacent, 
could  not  be  at  rest,  could  not  be  satisfied. 

Morality  has  as  many  codes  as  there  are 
climates,  as  many  text-books  as  there  are  temper- 
aments, as  many  consciences  as  there  are  weak- 
nesses in  human  nature.  It  has  no  foundation 
in  natural  law  and  can  give  no  rational  explana- 
tion of  its  objective.  Its  laws  are  written  not 
on  tables  of  stones,  but  on  tables  of  wax.  It  is 
dumb  when  challenged  for  authority,  and  unin- 
telligible when  pressed  for  motive.  It  is  a  con- 
venience, not  an  aspiration;  a  regulation,  not  an 
incentive;  an  instruction,  not  an  education.  It 
is  content  with  the  policeman,  and  sees  no  need 
for  a  Good  Shepherd.  It  would  prevent  men 
from  committing  crimes,  but  lifts  no  finger  to 
make  them  angels.  It  is  the  oleograph  in  paint- 
ing, the  guide-book  in  letters,  the  model  lodging- 
house  in  architecture.  It  is  without  poetry,  with- 
out feeling,  without  emotion.  The  whole  spirit- 
ual nature  of  man  is  untouched  by  it.  The  evolu- 
tion of  humanity,  it  limits  to  the  inventions  of 
the  engineer  and  the  discoveries  of  the  surgeon. 
It  turns  a  stiff  back  upon  the  beauty  and  passion 
of  nature;  and  its  attitude  towards  the  mysteries 
of  existence  is  without  reverence,  without  won- 


BETRAYED  145 

der,  and  without  inquiry.  A  nation  can  no  more 
safely  commit  its  destinies  to  the  moralist  and 
the  ethicist,  than  a  garden  be  left  to  the  labours 
of  a  man  whose  only  care  is  for  the  fences  and 
the  paths.  Morality  can  only  dare  to  do  without 
religion  so  long  as  public  opinion  is  religious. 
Remove  the  sanction  of  religion  and  conscience 
is  without  authority,  and  without  conscience  all 
is  chaos. 

One  sees  in  this  story  the  vast  and  unbridge- 
able gulf  which  separates  morality  from  religion. 
The  moralist,  whether  he  approved  or  disap- 
proved of  the  girl's  relation  to  her  keeper,  could 
not  have  invented  any  reason  to  shake  her  faith 
in  the  satisfaction  of  her  condition.  He  might 
even  have  been  challenged  to  decide  the  com- 
parative morality  of  continuing  in  a  relationship 
unrecognised  by  the  law,  or  of  adding  to  the 
congestion  of  a  wage-earning  labour  market. 
One  may  even  doubt  if  he  could  have  satisfac- 
torily explained  why  the  girl  should  not  live  on 
the  public  streets,  so  long  as  she  did  not  drink 
to  that  point  of  excess  injurious  to  her  health  or 
demanding  a  policeman's  interference,  so  long 
as  she  did  not  steal,  so  long  as  she  did  not  commit 
murder,  so  long  as  she  did  not  spread  the  con- 
tagion of  disease,  so  long  as  she  put  by  for  a 
rainy  day.  But  certainly  he  could  have  done 
nothing  at  all  to  make  her  surrender  a  protector 
to  whom  she  was  purely  and  tenderly  devoted, 


146  BETRAYED 

or  said  anything  to  make  her  welcome  a  long 
future  of  hard  service  and  mean  wages  in  ex- 
change for  a  life  of  pleasant  idleness  and  selfish 
satisfactions. 

This  is  what  religion  did  for  the  girl  first  led 
by  the  whiteness  of  a  flower  to  think  about  the 
difference  between  good  and  evil.  She  surren- 
dered herself  into  the  hands  of  the  West  London 
Mission,  went  into  the  Home  where  rescued 
women  are  trained  for  service,  and  with  a  body 
braced  by  healthful  toil,  a  mind  recharged  with 
its  original  vigour,  and  a  heart  so  completely 
changed  that  never  again  could  the  powers  of  the 
world  destroy  in  it  the  Cross  of  Christ,  passed 
out  into  the  toiling  ranks  of  humanity,  a  pure 
woman  and  a  daughter  of  religion. 

She  has  stood  a  long  test,  and  is  now  still 
in  domestic  service,  her  character  sweetening  as 
its  experience  of  purity  deepens,  and  her  heart 
strengthening  as  its  knowledge  of  religion  widens. 
There  is  nothing  in  her  story  to  suggest  hysteria. 
There  is  everything  in  her  present  condition  of 
soul  to  manifest  the  power  of  religion. 

With  one  incident,  showing  something  of  the 
vicissitudes  and  drama  of  life,  we  may  conclude 
this  narrative  of  a  slow  and  unviolent  conversion. 
She  took  service  as  cook  some  years  ago  in  the 
house  of  a  lady  living  in  St.  John's  Wood.  She 
gathered  from  her  fellow-servant  soon  after  en- 
tering upon  this  situation  that  the  establishment 


BETRAYED  147 

was  not  respectable,  although  from  the  registry 
office  she  had  received  nothing  but  assurances 
of  good.  She  was  undecided  as  to  what  she 
should  do,  and  so  far  had  seen  nothing  to  confirm 
the  suspicions  she  had  heard,  when  one  day  she 
was  told  by  her  mistress  to  prepare  a  dinner  for 
several  guests  and  instructed  to  assist  the  other 
servant  in  bringing  in  the  coffee.  During  the 
dinner  she  heard  gossip  from  her  fellow-servant 
concerning  the  grand  dresses  of  the  women  and 
the  gaiety  of  the  men,  but  nothing  more;  she 
thought  only  of  her  duties.  At  the  conclusion 
of  the  meal  she  followed  the  parlourmaid  into 
the  dining-room  with  the  coffee.  How  she  man- 
aged to  get  round  that  room,  she  told  the  Sister, 
she  does  not  know,  and  cannot  now  imagine. 
Her  whole  physical  strength  seemed  to  collapse 
and  her  mind  to  run  out  of  her  control.  For 
there  at  the  table  were  men  she  had  known  in 
the  earliest  days  of  her  fall,  and  in  one  of  the 
women  she  recognised  the  little  slatternly  girl 
who  had  waited  upon  her  in  those  days  of  evil 
and  luxury.  And  she  discovered  that  this  girl 
was  the  daughter  of  the  house. 

She  had  become  servant  to  her  former  land- 
lady, and  she  waited  as  a  pure  woman  on  the 
girl  who  had  waited  upon  her  in  the  days  of  her 
impurity. 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

HER  father  died  when  she  was  beginning 
to  help  in  the  home.  Her  idea  of  the 
world  was  impressed  upon  her  conscious- 
ness by  a  narrow  and  gloomy  alley,  surrounded 
whithersoever  she  bent  her  steps  by  roaring  roads 
and  seething  streets.  Her  idea  of  life  came  to 
her  from  the  dark  interior  of  a  crowded  home, 
where  a  good-natured  and  easy-going  mother 
diversified  the  occasional  struggle  to  make  things 
clean  and  tidy  by  more  regular  efforts  to  keep  up 
a  good  heart  with  the  aid  of  a  neighbouring 
publican.  If  she  had  any  thought  of  religion 
it  was  inspired  by  the  general  respect  and  dread 
which  her  father  and  mother  entertained  towards 
the  Roman  Catholic  priest.  If  she  had  any  con- 
ception of  joy  it  came  from  the  alcoholic  hilarity 
of  her  parents. 

Born  and  bred  in  the  slums  of  London,  accus- 
tomed from  earliest  infancy  to  grime  and  squalor, 
interested  only  in  the  games  of  the  gutter  and  the 
tricks,  illnesses,  and  petty  feuds  of  her  brothers 
and  sisters,  stupid  with  the  torpor  of  a  neglected 
intellect,  her  affections  stunted  and  crippled  for 
lack  of  employment,  the  whole  nature  of  the 

148 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  149 

child  suffering  inarticulately  and  without  con- 
sciousness, this  poor,  miserable,  and  bedraggled 
sparrow  of  East  London  was  just  beginning  to 
run  errands,  to  handle  a  worn  broom,  to  use  a 
ragged  duster,  to  make  a  loathly  bed,  to  peel 
potatoes,  and  soothe  the  cryings  of  the  latest 
baby,  when  the  greatest  event  which  ever  befalls 
the  very  poor — the  one  event  which  stirs  the 
muddy  ooze  of  the  slums  and  startles  the  thoughts 
of  the  dense  millions  packed  together  in  that 
miasma  of  poverty  and  destitution — happened 
in  her  wretched  home  and  set  her  life  into  a 
new  channel. 

She  was  first  frightened  by  the  dead  body  of 
her  father  lying  so  blue  and  motionless  upon  the 
bed;  then  she  was  interested  in  the  importance 
which  death  conferred  upon  the  home;  then, 
terror-stricken  by  the  information  that,  because 
of  this  thing  called  death,  she  was  to  be  sent 
away  from  her  mother,  her  sisters  and  brothers, 
and  the  vile  dwelling  which  was  her  only  anchor- 
age in  a  world  plainly  antagonistic. 

With  scared  feelings,  a  torn  heart,  and  eyes 
red  with  weeping,  the  mite  entered  one  of  those 
numerous  institutions  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  where  orphans  and  the  children  of  hus- 
bandless  women  are  educated  in  the  discipline 
of  the  Latin  Obedience  and  trained  to  earn  their 
living  as  domestic  servants.  The  big  place, 
crowded  with  neat  and  quiet  children,  and  over- 


150  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

ruled  by  women  in  the  strange  and  somewhat 
frightening  dress  of  Sisters  of  Mercy,  at  first 
bewildered  her,  made  her  conscious  of  an  almost 
intolerable  isolation;  but  soon,  with  the  adapt- 
ability of  a  child's  nature,  so  soft  and  pliable 
that  it  can  be  squeezed  into  any  mould,  the  little 
thing  fell  into  her  place,  perceived  what  was 
expected  of  her,  and  made  timorous  beginnings 
at  friendship  with  two  or  three  of  her  com- 
panions. Her  one  clear  memory  of  those  days 
is  associated  with  no  religious  idea,  with  no 
subject  of  education,  with  no  game,  with  no  par- 
ticular task,  with  no  friend;  she  remembers  the 
tremendous  necessity  of  being  always  absolutely 
quiet.    Noise  was  a  crime. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen,  with  her  intellect  some- 
what brightened  and  her  ideas  of  cleanliness  and 
propriety  entirely  revolutionised,  she  was  sent  out 
into  the  world  to  make  a  beginning  at  the  main 
business  of  terrestrial  existence,  the  earning  of 
daily  bread.  She  became  a  little  maid-of-all- 
work  to  a  lady  living  in  the  suburbanised  country 
beyond  the  smoke  of  London. 

This  woman  was  one  of  those  monsters  who 
occasionally  make  an  appearance  in  the  law- 
courts.  Her  case  deserves  the  careful  attention 
of  psychologists.  She  was  a  strict  Roman  Catho- 
lic, a  moral  woman,  and  a  devoted  wife.  But 
there  was  in  her  nature  a  stress  towards  cruelty, 
and  this  tigerish  instinct,  complicated  and  en- 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  151 

tangled  by  the  fervour  of  her  religious  faith,  fell 
upon  the  most  innocent  and  defenceless  person 
of  her  environment,  the  little  maid  to  whom,  by 
all  the  dictates  of  humanity,  she  should  have 
stood  as  a  mother. 

The  case  is  of  peculiar  interest  because  of  the 
religious  element.  The  woman  would  at  one 
moment  fall  upon  the  child  and  cane  her  about 
the  arms  and  legs,  and  at  the  very  next  moment, 
while  her  breathing  was  still  agitated  by  the 
infliction  of  punishment,  would  drag  the  child 
off  to  her  bedroom,  make  her  kneel  at  the  bed- 
side, and  there  these  two  mortals — the  hysterical 
woman  and  the  bruised  child — would  recite  the 
Pater  Noster,  the  Confiteor,  and  the  Nicene 
Creed.    Imagine  the  angels  looking  down! 

The  cane  was  bought  after  some  weeks  of  a 
more  ingenious  torture.  To  twist  the  child's  arm 
till  it  was  at  snapping-point,  and  then  sharply 
to  strike  the  screwed  elbow  with  a  clenched 
fist,  was  the  earliest  form  of  punishment;  but 
the  satisfaction  that  it  brought  to  the  woman 
lacked  in  vigour.  There  was  a  tempest  in  her 
nature.  Her  next  invention  of  discipline  was 
to  hold  and  press  the  child's  right  cheek  with  her 
left  hand,  while  with  the  other  hand  she  smote 
slowly,  strongly,  and  fiercely  the  left  side  of  the 
face  and  head.  The  child  remembers  how  her 
teeth  used  to  grid  under  these  blows. 

I  asked  her  what  it  was  which  brought  this 


152  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

punishment  down  upon  her — was  it  clumsiness, 
untidiness,  slowness,  rudeness,  or  obstinacy  ?  She 
has  now  no  reason  in  the  world  to  fence  with 
truth,  and  she  told  me  quite  definitely  and  also 
with  a  most  convincing  good-humour  and  spirit 
of  forgiveness,  that  she  believed  it  all  came  about 
through  her  being  so  noiseless  and  quiet.  The 
virtue  of  the  orphanage  became  the  crime  of 
the  suburban  villa.  "  We  were  taught,"  she  told 
me,  "  to  be  very  quiet  in  the  convent,  and  I  think 
it  irritated  the  lady.  She  used  to  spring  upon 
me  when  I  was  doing  my  work,  and  slap  me, 
beat  me,  twist  my  arm,  and  take  me  off  to  pray 
with  her,  never  saying  a  word  as  to  what  it  was 
all  about." 

The  suffering  of  this  child  was  perfectly  well 
known  to  the  husband  of  the  woman  and  also 
to  the  cook.     Neither  of  them  ever  interfered. 

She  began  to  regard  religion  rather  callously. 
She  had  never  felt  the  least  love  for  a  divine 
Father,  she  had  never  had  her  affections  in  the 
least  stirred  by  the  life  and  death  of  Christ;  her 
feeling  towards  the  invisible  Powers  had  always 
been  one  of  fear — God  a  ghostly,  spying,  and 
tyrannical  demon-policeman:  the  next  world,  a 
possibility  of  hell.  But  now,  dumbly  mutinous 
against  her  savage  mistress,  and  instinctively  con- 
scious of  some  frightful  degree  of  unreality  in 
those  panting  prayers  at  the  bedside,  she  began 
to  think  a  little  for  herself,  began  to  shake  off 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  153 

the  clinging  authority  of  the  convent,  began  to 
leave  God  alone  and  to  consider  how  she  could 
best  look  after  her  own  life.  She  did  not  defi- 
nitely renounce  faith  in  what  she  understood 
to  be  religion;  but  gradually  and  quite  uncon- 
sciously she  began  to  be  one  of  that  innumerable 
company  who  leave  the  consideration  of  the  next 
life  till  it  makes  an  appearance. 

At  first  she  said  nothing  to  anybody  about 
her  canings  and  beatings,  but  at  last,  finding  her 
mother  more  and  more  sympathetic  as  poverty 
pressed  closer  to  her,  the  drudge  told  the  story 
of  her  strange  mistress  on  the  rare  and  delightful 
occasions  of  her  visits  home.  The  mother  did 
not  fly  off  to  avenge  her  daughter,  did  not  express 
any  loud  and  passionate  indignation;  she  con- 
tented herself  by  many  wise  shakings  of  her 
head  and  by  a  very  portentous  expression  of 
countenance,  occasionally  remarking  with  a  sad 
and  sorrowful  sigh  that  some  ladies  are  "  like 
that,"  and  God  Almighty  has  a  deal  to  put  up 
with. 

But  the  girl  was  neither  middle-aged,  nor 
widowed,  nor  alcoholic.  She  was  young,  robust, 
good-looking,  and  on  the  threshold  of  conscious 
womanhood.  She  found  domestic  drudgery  a 
poor  employment  of  youth;  she  began  to  think 
that  her  body  had  other  uses  than  to  serve  as  a 
flogging-post. 

She  made  a  suggestion,  which  appealed  to  the 


154  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

mother's  need  and  also  to  her  principal  desire. 
Why  should  the  mother  work  so  hard  and  for 
so  poor  a  dole,  when  the  daughter  could  easily 
support  her  by  needlework?  The  mother  earned 
precarious  shillings  by  the  sloppy  labour  of  a 
charwoman.  She  had  to  go  great  distances  to 
her  work.  She  was  not  physically  strong.  Fogs 
and  wet  weather  tried  her  sorely.  Her  greatest 
ambition  was  to  sit  still  and  do  nothing.  The 
daughter  suggested  that  this  ambition  was  no 
dream  of  millennium.  Let  it  be  decided  at  once 
that  she  should  come  home  and  work  for  one 
of  the  numerous  tailors  in  the  neighbourhood. 

In  this  way  came  an  end  to  canings,  arm- 
twistings,  and  prayers.  Liberty  came  in  the 
shape  of  long  and  toilsome  labour,  but  it  was 
sweet,  and,  for  the  first  time,  life  seemed  to  be 
a  possible  delight.  As  a  tailoress  she  earned 
fifteen  shillings  a  week,  and  for  years  she  gave 
her  mother  every  week  fourteen  of  those  fifteen 
shillings.  A  good  daughter,  tidy,  moral,  sweet- 
tempered,  and  cheerful;  but  entirely  without  the 
sense  of  religion,  entirely  satisfied  with  the  nar- 
row hopes  and  common  desires  of  a  poor  neigh- 
bourhood; a  girl  little  likely  to  make  shipwreck 
of  her  life,  and  as  little  likely  to  draw  near  to 
the  mysteries  of  the  spiritual  life. 

Her  romance  came  when  the  mother  was  still 
alive.  A  man  of  extraordinary  physical  energy, 
a  typical  free-lance  of  London's  labour  market, 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  155 

fell  in  love  with  the  good-looking  tailoress  and 
they  began  to  bill  and  coo  in  the  intervals  of  their 
bread-earning.  He  worked  in  the  morning  as 
a  porter  in  Covent  Garden,  and  at  night  as  a 
scene-shifter  in  a  theatre.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  who  are  perfectly  happy  while  they  are 
earning  "  good  money,"  who  are  enthusiastic  and 
untired  while  they  are  working  as  their  own 
masters,  and  who  become  slack  and  disheartened 
if  ever  they  have  to  fall  into  the  ranks  and  work, 
like  the  agricultural  labourer,  for  a  regular  wage. 
This  man  could  do  with  little  sleep,  wasted  no 
money  on  drink,  insured  his  life,  hoarded  his 
savings,  and  had  ever  an  eye  open  for  the  main 
chance.  He  could  never  understand  how  any 
man  can  be  willingly  idle,  was  himself  never  more 
unhappy  than  in  the  intervals  separating  one 
job  from  another,  felt  himself  most  a  man  when 
he  was  most  busy  and  carrying  the  biggest 
weight. 

These  two  people  married ;  both  of  them  hard- 
working and  moral,  typical,  one  would  say,  of 
London's  respectable,  honest,  thrifty,  painstaking, 
and  quite  unimaginative  working  classes;  a  man 
and  woman  seeking  money  and  desiring  respecta- 
bility; proud  of  their  home  and  best  clothes; 
happy  in  their  prosperous  struggle  for  existence; 
content  with  the  conditions  of  their  life;  un- 
touched in  any  lifting  or  saving  way  by  the  great 
mysteries  of  life;  as  truly  Christless  as  the  im- 


156  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

moral,  as  truly  Godless  as  the  atheist.  Both  of 
them  stood  at  as  great  a  distance  from  anything 
approaching  to  religion  as  from  anything  de- 
scending to  depravity. 

Three  children  were  born  to  them.  The 
struggle  for  existence  became  a  little  harder  in 
consequence;  that  is  to  say,  they  were  not  able 
to  cut  quite  so  fine  a  figure  in  the  neighbourhood. 
The  children  were  not  unwelcome,  but  they  were 
a  drag  on  the  wheel  of  prosperity.  There  were 
days  when  the  competing  claims  of  necessity  and 
luxury  bothered  the  brain  and  vexed  the  heart 
of  this  hard-working  housewife.  She  was  never 
in  the  least  degree  unkind  to  her  children;  on 
the  contrary,  her  tendency  lay  in  the  direction 
of  spoiling  them;  but  she  found,  with  increasing 
regret,  how  it  costs '  many  shillings  a  week  to 
bring  up  three  children  in  London  with  their 
faces  towards  respectability. 

"  Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment; Adversity  is  the  blessing  of  the  New." 
There  are  few  tests  of  character  so  searching  and 
so  discovering  as  this  material  prosperity,  after 
which  all  men,  save  those  best  able  to  endure 
the  victory,  seek  so  industriously.  "  Prosperity 
is  not  without  many  fears."  On  the  face  of 
things  this  man  and  woman,  with  their  com- 
fortable home  and  three  thriving  children,  adver- 
tised the  success  of  thrift,  industry,  and  all  those 
other  moral  virtues  which  without  religion  are 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  157 

as  dangerous  to  character  as  the  intemperance  of 
vice.  They  might  have  been  held  up  to  the  envi- 
ous observation  of  the  dissolute  and  base  by  socie- 
ties for  the  promotion  of  thrift,  self-help,  and 
civic  decency.  They  might  have  been  exhibited 
in  all  the  cities  of  the  world  as  the  fruits  of  a 
successful  civilisation  which  has  prosperity  for 
its  final  goal  and  law-abiding  respectability  for 
its  god.  But  below  the  surface  of  things  there 
was  a  weakening  of  moral  fibre  and  a  dreadful 
atrophy  of  the  spiritual  life.  The  struggle  for 
prosperity  saved  them  from  depravity,  but  the 
spirit  in  which  that  struggle  was  made  carried 
them  in  a  direction  as  clean  contrary  from  the 
objective  of  existence  as  depravity  itself. 

The  curse  of  prosperity  came  home  to  roost 
when  the  industrious  husband  died,  and  the 
woman  was  left  to  face  the  business  of  life  with 
all  the  vigour  gone  out  of  her  moral  being  and 
nothing  in  her  soul  wherewith  to  confront  the 
devastation  of  death.  In  the  days  of  her  distress, 
when  she  toiled  all  day  to  support  her  mother, 
she  had  been  at  least  resourceful,  confident,  and 
courageous.  But  now,  fat  with  prosperity,  and 
flaccid  with  the  corruption  of  a  merely  material 
and  quite  vulgar  respectability,  the  stunning  blow 
of  death  struck  sickly  paralysis  through  a  moral 
being  sapped  of  all  enduring  foundation;  she 
was  left  weeping  and  lamenting,  grieving  and 
complaining — as  feeble  and  as  poor  a  thing  as 


158  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

ever    found    itself   against   the   oppugnance   of 
natural  laws. 

The  popularity  and  thrift  of  the  dead  man 
tumbled  a  dish  of  gold  into  the  widow's  lap. 
The  insurance  money  and  a  "  whip-round "  at 
the  theatre  brought  momentary  fortune  to  the 
bereaved  family.  No  little  group  of  humanity 
ever  mourned  in  stirrer  black  and  deeper  crape; 
no  funeral  obsequies  were  ever  carried  out  in 
that  neighbourhood  with  greater  emphasis  of 
Rochefoucauld's  famous  gibe.  Respectability 
kept  up  its  head  in  widow's  weeds  of  the  richest 
material.  The  devastation  of  death  was  defied 
by  the  milliner  and  undertaker. 

But  grief  will  have  its  way;  and  its  way  in 
this  case  was  watered  by  perpetual  tears,  was 
marked  by  a  continual  self-indulgence  and  an 
effortless  resignation  to  the  altered  fortunes  of 
the  house.  So  long  as  the  gold  lasted  the  way 
was  easy,  and  never  once  did  the  poor  widow 
need  the  support  of  alcohol.  It  sufficed  her  to 
sit  still  and  weep  for  the  dead  man,  to  miss  his 
step  upon  the  stair,  to  recall  his  kindness,  to 
burst  into  tears  at  sight  of  his  empty  chair,  to 
utter  lamentable  fears  for  the  future  of  her 
fatherless  children.  But  the  day  came  when  the 
gold  was  all  spent;  the  day  came  when  the  cup- 
board was  almost  empty;  the  day  came  when 
the  landlord  called  for  an  overdue  rent.  When 
the  rent  is  overdue,  it  is  the  beginning  of  the  end 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  159 

for  all  very  poor  people.  It  marked  a  milestone 
in  the  life  of  this  widow. 

A  year  had  gone  by  since  the  husband  died. 
The  year  of  mourning  had  been  gradually  grow- 
ing a  year  of  need.  From  the  day  of  the  grand 
funeral  to  the  day  of  the  landlord's  visit,  the 
wolf  had  been  pressing  with  ever  greater  weight 
at  the  door.  Starvation  and  ruin  did  not  come 
at  a  bound,  but  when  they  did  finally  reach  to 
the  dulled  consciousness  of  the  woman,  they  had 
all  the  force  and  dismay  of  surprise. 

She  went  through  the  usual  sad  business  of 
being  "  turned  out,"  utilising  all  the  delays  of 
the  law  till  the  last  moment,  weeping  over  her 
vanishing  furniture,  abusing  the  landlord  with  a 
fierce  energy,  and  finally  marching  in  a  kind  of 
stage  triumph  to  the  workhouse,  with  the  boast, 
loud  enough  for  all  the  neighbours  to  hear,  that 
her  children  should  never  walk  the  streets. 

So  far  in  the  story  there  is  nothing  but  respect- 
ability and  misfortune;  no  hint  from  beginning 
to  end  of  insobriety  and  shame. 

At  the  workhouse  she  parted  from  her  chil- 
dren, and  set  out  to  earn  her  own  living  in  a 
spirit  of  greater  rage  against  providence  and  her 
landlord  than  of  anxiety  to  make  a  home  for 
those  whose  tears  were  still  wet  upon  her  cheeks. 
She  was  roused  from  her  stupor,  she  had  re- 
covered at  a  spring  something  of  her  old  energy, 
but  she  was  entirely  without  that  quiet  of  the 


160  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

spirit  which  alone  can  give  poise  and  direction 
to  a  driven  soul.  She  was  burning  with  a  hot 
indignation,  not  with  the  pure  flame  of  her 
motherhood;  she  was  mindful  of  her  wrongs  and 
injustices,  not  of  her  weakness  and  her  folly. 

She  went  to  one  of  the  more  decent  lodging- 
houses  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Covent  Garden, 
paid  for  her  bed,  and  joined  the  sisterhood  of 
sad  and  lonely  women  in  the  common  kitchen. 
She  bore  so  many  marks  of  her  old  respectability 
that  she  attracted  the  favourable  attention  of 
these  drifting  women  of  the  gutter,  who  are 
always  ready  for  a  tale,  always  inclined  to  a 
gossip,  and  who  like  nothing  better  in  conversa- 
tion than  an  opportunity  for  woe-begone  refer- 
ence to  "  better  times."  They  made  much  of  her, 
showed  her  kindness,  indulged  her  with  commis- 
eration, and  stimulated  her  with  encouragement 
of  their  down-at-heel  philosophy  of  life.  The 
parting  from  the  children  at  the  door  of  the 
Union  was  the  subject  which  moved  all  those 
poor  women's  hearts  towards  the  new  lodger — 
the  unbefriended  woman  who  had  stepped,  in  a 
moment,  from  a  home  to  the  gutter.  One  of 
them  told  her  a  way  of  earning  money,  and 
offered  to  teach  her  the  business.  Sometimes  it 
paid,  sometimes  it  didn't,  but  on  an  average  it 
worked  out  the  expenses  of  the  lodging-house. 
It  was  the  business  of  a  flower-seller. 

"All  the  heart,"  she  says,  "was  took  out  of 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  161 

me — no  husband!  no  children!  I  was  glad  to 
do  anything;  so  I  took  up  with  flower-selling." 

The  two  women  rose  early  and  hurried  to 
Covent  Garden  market.  The  teacher  was  no 
longer  the  gossip  of  the  common  kitchen,  but  a 
hard,  vigorous,  alert,  and  boisterous  woman  of 
action.  It  takes  a  shrewd  head  and  a  rough 
tongue  to  buy  flowers  cheap  enough  in  the  market 
to  be  sold  at  a  profit  on  the  kerb.  The  widow 
was  perplexed  and  bewildered  by  all  the  noise 
and  struggle  and  confusion;  she  was  also  filled 
with  admiration  for  the  knowledge  and  address 
of  her  new  friend.  When  the  business  was  done, 
the  flowers  all  bought,  tied,  stacked,  and  ready 
for  exhibition  in  the  gutters,  the  vigorous  teacher 
proposed  a  glass  of  ale,  and  moved  off  to  a 
public-house  through  the  crowd  of  porters,  sales- 
men, flower-sellers,  and  loafers  thronging  the 
littered  streets.  The  widow  could  do  nothing 
but  follow. 

"  Never  till  that  day  had  I  tasted  beer,,,  she 
tells  me;  "  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  could 
screw  up  my  courage  to  drink.  Every  time  I 
raised  the  glass  to  my  lips,  the  smell  got  into 
my  nose  and  made  me  feel  quite  sick.  And  yet 
I  didn't  like  to  look  a  fool  before  all  the  people, 
and  I  wanted  to  be  friendly  with  the  woman  who 
was  helping  me.  But  how  I  ever  drank  that 
glass  of  ale  I  can't  tell.  It  was  the  first  I  had 
ever  drunk;  and  I  wish  it  had  been  the  last.    It 


162  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

seemed  as  if  my  whole  body  turned  against  it. 
I  couldn't  swallow  without  that  feeling  of  sick- 
ness, and  when  I  had  swallowed,  I  had  to  shudder 
as  if  I  was  cold." 

There  is  something  tragic  and  pathetic,  I  think, 
in  the  figure  of  this  poor  slack  victim  of  re- 
spectability, standing  in  a  crowded  tavern,  and 
beginning  her  experience  of  the  gutter,  begin- 
ning her  plunge  into  the  abyss,  with  a  glass  of 
beer  which  nauseated  her  whole  being,  and  which 
she  yet  needs  must  drink  to  gratify  the  friend 
of  her  distress.  She  had  fallen  on  evil  days, 
her  heart  was  taken  out  of  her,  and  in  the  bitter- 
ness and  upheaval  of  her  wrecked  life  she  had 
found  this  one  sturdy  friend  who,  without  price, 
was  willing  to  teach  the  difficult  way  in  which 
a  poor  woman  can  earn  bread.  Out  of  the  purest 
gratitude  for  such  friendship  she  screwed  up  her 
courage  and  finally  drank,  as  a  child  drinks  medi- 
cine, the  glass  of  kindness,  the  glass,  for  her, 
of  ruin  and  direst  woe.  Banish  from  your  mind 
all  thought  of  the  sordid  scene,  the  sloven  people, 
and  the  mere  glass  of  ale;  think  of  it  only  as 
the  drama  of  a  soul  passing  through  the  experi- 
ence of  this  planetary  life,  and  you  will  see  this 
forlorn  and  dejected  spirit,  like  the  hero  in 
Schiller,  "  leaning  on  the  bending  reed  of  vice 
over  the  gulf  of  perdition." 

How  trivial  the  occasion,  how  appalling  the 
consequences!    From  that  day  the  morning  glass 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  163 

of  beer  after  the  harassing  work  in  the  market 
became  a  regular  breakfast;  the  first  dislike  of 
it — as  though  her  spirit  had  sought  to  warn  her 
through  the  nausea  of  the  body — vanished  alto- 
gether; pleasure  in  the  taste  gradually  grew  to 
delight  in  the  effects;  delight  in  the  effects  grew 
more  swiftly  to  a  craving  for  the  thing  itself; 
finally  it  became  to  her  everything  in  life. 

Her  descent  was  headlong.  The  first  step  with 
a  woman  is  not  easily  taken,  but  once  taken, 
swifter  than  any  man,  with  an  entire  abandon- 
ment of  everything  that  saves  the  soul,  she  pitches 
to  destruction.  This  poor  woman  was  the  last 
person  in  the  world,  one  would  have  thought, 
ever  to  lose  hold  of  respectability,  even  if  her 
hands  held  only  the  rags  and  tatters  of  it;  but 
she  loosed  her  fingers  of  everything  that  is  above 
the  pool  and  sank  like  a  stone  to  the  slime  of  its 
despair. 

She  became  one  of  the  dirtiest  and  raggedest 
human  scarecrows  that  ever  showed  bleared  eyes, 
shining  cheeks,  and  a  loose  mouth  in  the  gutters 
of  London.  She  sold  flowers,  or  shelled  walnuts, 
or  ran  errands  on  her  broken  boots,  with  no  other 
purpose  in  her  soul  than  the  quest  of  beer. 

"  It  was  a  craving,"  she  tells  me.  "  It  wouldn't 
let  me  rest.  Bread  and  meat — I  couldn't  look 
at  them;  but  beer  I  had  to  have  or  I  should  have 
lost  my  reason.  I  often  used  to  have  food 
offered  me.    I  couldn't  even  look  at  it.    My  whole 


164  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

body  seemed  to  turn  against  eating.  It  was 
drink,  always  drink.  I  don't  believe  I  was  hungry 
for  years,  never  once.  But  except  when  I  was 
sleeping,  I  was  regularly  burned  up  with  thirst." 

She  came  to  living  in  the  lowest  of  doss- 
houses.  With  her  dress  in  grimy  tatters,  her 
boots  broken  on  her  feet,  her  bonnet  battered 
out  of  all  shape  and  meaning,  her  face  a  terrible 
witness  of  alcoholic  poisoning,  her  speech  a  blub- 
bering, grinning,  hiccoughing  duet  of  hilarity 
and  misery,  she  fell  in  with  the  lowest  of  women, 
the  most  despairing  of  humankind,  and  passed 
into  the  likeness  of  that  degeneration  and  maras- 
mus which  is  said  by  science  and  politics  to  be 
beyond  the  reach  of  reclamation. 

I  asked  her  about  the  women  she  encountered 
in  the  doss-house  during  this  dreadful  time. 
"  Most  of  them,"  she  said,  "  were  women  de- 
serted by  their  husbands.  Some  were  very  bad, 
but  I  never  met  one  that  wasn't  kind.  You'd 
see  a  woman  in  the  kitchen  eating  a  packet  of 
fried  fish  as  though  she  was  starving,  turn  and 
give  a  bit  to  some  other  woman  who  was  sitting 
by  the  fire  with  nothing  in  her  lap.  You'd  hear 
many  a  kind  word  spoken.  And  they  weren't 
bitter.  Nearly  all  would  lay  the  blame  on  them- 
selves. We  used  to  sleep  eight  in  a  room,  and 
there  was  one  woman  in  the  room  where  my 
bed  was  who  used  to  go  off  to  sleep  every  night 
crying  to  herself,   and   saying,   '  Oh,   my  poor 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  165 

children !  Oh,  my  poor  children !  I'd  be  so  good 
to  you  if  they'd  only  let  me  come  back.'  That 
was  one  of  the  things  they  liked  to  talk  about 
more  than  anything  else — the  children  they'd  left 
behind  them.  Many  a  time  I  thought  of  my 
three.  And  first  of  all,  when  the  drink  was 
getting  a  hold  of  me  and  I  felt  that  everything 
was  beginning  to  slip  out  of  my  hands,  I  tried 
hard  to  make  a  fight  of  it,  for  their  sakes.  I  said 
to  myself,  '  This  is  getting  a  habit;  I  must  shove 
my  will  up  against  it.'  But  it  was  no  use.  I 
did  try.  I  thought  I  could  push  against  it.  But 
it  seemed  to  get  worse  the  more  I  tried,  and  so  I 
gave  up  trying  altogether,  and  just  let  myself  go." 

One  seems  to  see  very  deep  into  the  abyss  of 
degradation,  looking  down  upon  that  unknown 
and  homeless  woman  in  her  lodging-house  bed, 
and  listening  to  her  whimper  of,  "  Oh,  my  poor 
children!  Oh,  my  poor  children!"  She  used 
to  fall  asleep,  night  after  night,  with  that  sigh 
upon  her  lips.  Stranger  and  perhaps  farther- 
reaching  cries  from  the  human  heart  ascend  to 
heaven  out  of  the  abyss  than  from  the  decorous 
places  of  respectability  and  refinement. 

Who  was  she?  I  inquired,  and  the  story  of 
her  life  was  told  to  me  in  a  sentence:  "Her 
husband  was  living  with  another  woman;  he  had 
turned  her  out  on  account  of  the  drink." 

Do  they  ever  talk  of  religion,  these  derelict 
women  of  our  common  lodging-houses?     Yes; 


166  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

but  always  as  something  attaching  to  the  old  and 
buried  days  of  their  respectability.  "  We  used 
to  go  to  church  regular.  .  .  .  The  clergyman 
often  came  to  see  us.  .  .  .  My  children  were 
all  confirmed,  all  but  the  last;  we  were  too  poor 
then."  They  speak  of  religion  as  they  speak  of 
the  best  parlour,  a  fine  bonnet,  or  money  in  the 
savings  bank.  The  morality  of  the  Christian 
revelation  seems  to  have  penetrated  into  the  re- 
motest places  of  civilisation;  the  inspiration  of 
that  religion — a  passionate  love  towards  God  and 
a  hunger  and  thirst  after  holiness — seems  to  be 
nowhere  understood. 

But  the  miracle  happens,  and  it  happened  to 
the  drunken  and  degraded  woman  of  this  narra- 
tive. She  was  deep  in  the  abyss.  The  effort  to 
set  her  will  against  the  habit  of  alcoholism  had 
been  made,  and  abandoned.  She  was  conscious 
of  helplessness.  Her  powers  of  control  had  per- 
ished with  her  respectability.  The  craving  had 
become  master  and  tyrant  of  her  life.  She  could 
do  nothing  but  sink. 

A  small  thing  saved  her.  She  was  walking 
home  to  the  lodging-house  one  night,  drunk  and 
dazed,  her  senses  obscured  in  the  fumes  of  her 
poison,  her  soul  apparently  weighed  down  and 
suffocated  by  the  crushing  depression  of  her  gen- 
eral misery,  when  the  sound  of  voices  singing  a 
hymn  to  the  accompaniment  of  an  ancient  har- 
monium came  to  her  from  the  upstairs  window 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  167 

of  a  dark  building  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
road.  She  did  not  stop;  she  did  not  raise  her 
face.  Through  the  gaslit  murk  of  the  gloomy 
street  the  wretched,  drunken  harridan  lurched 
upon  her  way  with  no  sign,  with  no  knowledge, 
that  a  mystery  was  at  work  upon  her  soul.  She 
entered  the  kitchen  of  the  lodging-house,  sat  for 
a  little  while  with  the  Miserables,  and  then  went 
to  her  bed,  saying  nothing  of  a  new  thought  in 
her  mind,  knowing  nothing  of  its  power.  She 
only  knew  that  she  had  heard  invisible  men  and 
women  singing  a  hymn,  the  rhythm  of  which 
was  somehow  familiar,  somehow  sad,  somehow 
haunting.  She  fell  asleep  thinking  without  direc- 
tion and  without  management  of  this  accidental 
tune. 

In  the  morning  she  woke  with  a  feeling  of 
exceeding  misery  and  dejection.  She  felt  how 
unhappy  she  was — how  lonely,  how  friendless, 
how  homeless,  how  hopeless.  Oftentimes  enough 
she  had  emerged  from  sleep  with  all  the  physical 
wretchedness  of  alcoholism;  but  now  there  was 
something  added  to  this  weakness  and  heaviness 
of  the  body;  she  felt  herself,  very  definitely,  to 
be  "  consciously  wrong,  inferior,  and  unhappy  ' 
— the  first  condition,  according  to  Professor  Wil- 
liam James,  of  spiritual  change.  The  tune  of 
the  hymn  seemed  to  float  upon  the  muddled 
obscurity  of  her  despair.  She  was  aware  of  it 
in  a  dim  and  dull  way.     She  associated  it  with 


168  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

this  self-knowledge  of  hopelessness  and  misery. 
It  seemed  as  if  it  wanted  to  make  her  cry. 

There  was  one  obvious  way  out  of  this  de- 
jection, the  familiar  trodden  way  of  her  destroy- 
ing habit.  She  went  to  the  market,  earned 
enough  money  for  drink,  and  hastened  to  her 
•favourite  tavern. 

But  that  day  something  lived  in  her  soul  over 
which  drink  had  no  power.  She  forgot  her  de- 
pression, but  she  could  not  forget  the  realisation 
of  her  terrible  condition.  The  tune  of  the  hymn 
kept  haunting  her  with  the  remembrance  that 
she  was  consciously  wrong,  inferior,  and  un- 
happy. The  more  she  drank  the  more  clinging 
and  clutching  became  the  obsession  of  this  new 
knowledge.  It  was  as  if  some  devil  kept  holding 
a  mirror  before  her,  turning  it  to  confront  her 
every  way  she  looked.  There  was  no  escape. 
She  saw  herself  wherever  she  directed  her  gaze. 
She  saw  the  ruin  and  havoc,  the  corruption  and 
shame,  the  vileness  and  horror,  of  all  that  had 
once  been  her  pride  and  pleasure.  But  it  was 
unalterable.  Who  could  take  the  stupor  out  of 
those  dazed  eyes,  who  could  strengthen  those 
loose  and  vinous  lips,  who  could  give  back  the 
firmness  and  vigour  of  her  hanging  flesh?  The 
rags  which  clung  about  her,  the  glaze  upon  her 
skin,  the  torpor  of  her  brain,  the  nauseating 
sickness  of  her  soul — these  things  were  all  as 
unchangeable  and  fixed  as  the  leopard's  spots — 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  169 

they  were  a  part  of  her  existence,  they  were  her 
very  self,  nothing  could  alter  them. 

For  some  days  she  continued  in  this  wretched 
state,  drinking  as  hard  as  her  money  would  allow, 
eating  nothing,  and  abandoning  herself  to  the 
most  hopeless  despair.  She  was  as  near  the 
midnight  darkness  of  the  Thames  as  any  poor 
wretch  in  London. 

Then  there  came  a  voice  to  her,  "  loud  as  a 
bursting  sea,"  with  clamorous  appeal  for  life 
not  death,  for  hope  not  despair,  for  goodness  not 
evil.  It  was  the  voice  of  her  own  dying  soul. 
It  was  the  cry  of  her  own  perishing  spirit.  She 
heard  it  with  all  the  terror  of  a  wild  self-knowl- 
edge. Now  at  last  she  saw  the  full  horror  of 
her  condition.  Now  at  last  she  was  aware  of 
ruin  and  of  doom.  To  escape  from  destruction, 
to  save  her  own  life,  became  suddenly  a  fierce 
and  insurgent  passion.  She  turned  instantly,  by 
the  whole  instinct  of  her  perishing  soul,  to  re- 
ligion. She  wanted  to  fling  herself  into  the  sav- 
ing arms  of  a  sheltering  power  transcending 
everything  she  knew  of  life. 

The  men  and  women  whose  voices  she  had 
heard  singing  a  hymn  from  an  upper  window, 
held  twice  a  week  an  open-air  service  at  the 
corner  of  a  vile  street  in  that  neighbourhood. 
She  had  seen  them  many  times  without  giving 
a  thought  to  their  purpose.  She  had  noticed 
the  bright  and  girl-like  face  of  the   Sister  in 


170  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

charge  of  this  Mission  without  ascribing  any 
mysterious  power  to  her.  But  now,  in  her  de- 
spair, she  thought  of  this  little  company  of  street 
missionaries,  thought  of  them  without  any  care 
as  to  what  church  they  represented,  thought  of 
them  only  as  servants  of  the  Christ  who  saves 
sinners,  thought  of  them  as  the  only  people  she 
knew  in  all  London  who  represented  the  shelter 
and  salvation  of  that  vast  Power  into  whose 
arms  she  so  passionately  hungered  to  cast  the 
burden  of  her  weakness  and  despair. 

Her  coming  to  the  meeting  in  the  open  air  is 
remembered  to  this  day.  The  crippled  woman 
in  her  bath-chair,  "the  only  carriage  lady  in 
the  Mission,"  was  the  first  to  be  aware  of  her 
presence.  The  drunken  flower-seller  pushed 
through  the  knot  of  listeners,  stumbled  against 
the  bath-chair,  and  stood  there,  breathing  hard, 
one  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  her  bloodshot 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  preacher.  She  was  recog- 
nised as  "  one  of  the  worst  flower-sellers  from 
the  lodging-houses."  They  thought  she  had  come 
to  interrupt  the  meeting.  There  was  ferocity  in 
her  manner,  because  the  roused  spirit  was  intent. 
She  was  blear-eyed,  red-nosed,  red-mouthed,  the 
hair  hanging  about  her  wild  face.  Some  one 
went  to  her,  and  asked  gently  but  reprovingly, 
why  she  had  come.  She  answered,  "  Because  I 
want  to  be  good." 

That  was  all.     She  said  nothing  more.     The 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  171 

commonplace  words  expressed  the  motion  of  her 
spirit.  It  was  the  London  flower-seller's  form 
of  saying,  "  I  will  arise,  and  go  to  my  Father." 
From  the  depths  of  the  abyss  she  looked  up- 
ward; from  the  isolation  of  a  far  country  she 
turned  her  face  towards  home.  She  wanted  to 
be  good. 

At  the  end  of  the  meeting  an  appeal  was  made 
to  all  wretched  and  unhappy  souls  that  they 
should  declare  themselves,  there  and  then,  in 
need  of  a  Saviour.  They  were  asked,  those  who 
were  unhappy  and  sad,  those  who  wanted  the 
comfort  and  love  of  a  divine  Saviour,  to  hold 
up  their  hands.  The  gathering  flame  of  the 
naphtha  lamp  shone  upon  two  hands  black  with 
the  toil  of  walnut-picking. 

The  young  Sister  in  charge  of  the  Mission 
went  to  the  side  of  the  flower-seller,  touched  her, 
said  kind  and  encouraging  words,  and  led  her 
away.  The  two  women,  a  moment  ago  separated 
by  a  great  gulf,  were  now  close  to  one  another, 
sisters  of  the  same  humanity,  looking  upward  to 
the  same  overshadowing  Fatherhood  of  the  uni- 
verse. They  could  speak  soul  to  soul.  They 
could  understand  each  other's  language.  They 
could  kneel  side  by  side  in  prayer. 

The  great  promise  was  boldly  made  and  long- 
ingly believed.  God  answers  prayer.  There  is 
nothing  He  cannot  do.  Earnest  prayer,  even 
from  the  gutters  and  lodging-houses  of  London, 


172  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

reaches  to  the  invisible  centre  of  the  universe  and 
moves  the  Hand  of  God.  The  answer  comes — 
sometimes  immediately,  sometimes  gradually, 
sometimes  after  a  long  and  ennobling  discipline; 
but  always  prayer  is  answered.  Did  she  believe 
this  ?  Yes,  with  all  her  soul !  Did  she  feel  that 
God  could  take  away  from  her  the  craving  for 
drink?  Yes,  she  believed  He  could.  Did  she 
truly  and  earnestly  desire  to  lead  a  new  life,  at 
all  costs,  whatever  the  hardships,  however  long 
and  bitter  and  heart-breaking  the  struggle  ?  Yes, 
yes !  there  was  nothing  she  would  not  endure  for 
that  gift  from  God — a  new  life! 

In  some  cases  the  desire  for  drink  ends  im- 
mediately with  the  first  cry  of  the  soul.  With 
men  this  is  often  so;  the  records  of  such  in- 
stantaneous healings  are  numerous  and  convinc- 
ing; I  have  investigated  many  such  instances  of 
immediate  conversion  years  after  the  moment  of 
illumination.  But  with  women  the  process  of 
new-birth  is  more  often  difficult  and  slow.  A 
man,  by  the  very  force  of  his  nature,  appears  to 
project  his  soul  further  into  the  Infinite  at  the 
moment  of  repentance  than  does  a  woman,  whose 
plunge  into  perdition  is  generally  more  sudden 
and  despairing.  It  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
and  instructive  discoveries  in  the  study  of  re- 
ligious experience  to  find  how  very  often  the 
answer  to  prayer  is  long  delayed,  and  comes  at 
last  so  gradually  that  the  actual  moment  of  re- 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  173 

lease  cannot  be  marked.  In  some  cases  it  seems 
that  the  very  violence  of  instant  answer  which 
is  necessary  to  save  a  particular  soul,  would  pro- 
duce only  hysteria  and  that  state  worse  than  the 
first  of  which  we  have  the  divine  warning. 

With  the  flower-seller  the  answer  to  prayer 
came  quickly  but  not  immediately.  It  was  im- 
mediate in  this  respect,  that  the  burning  and 
uncontrollable  appetite  of  her  disease  ceased  to 
torture  her  from  the  moment  of  her  cry  for  help. 
But  a  tendency  towards  alcohol  was  left;  an 
occasional  desire  to  drink  visited  her  mind;  she 
never  felt  in  the  least  disposed  to  plunge  again 
into  drunkenness,  but  was  conscious  from  time 
to  time  of  the  feeling  that  drink  would  make 
her  more  cheerful,  help  her  to  lead  the  new  life. 
These  occasional  whisperings  of  temptation  were 
overcome  by  prayer. 

The  desire  for  a  new  life  was  fed  and  tended 
by  the  Sister.  The  bright  prospect  of  reunion 
with  her  children  was  perpetually  held  out  to  the 
soul  struggling  towards  righteousness.  She  says 
that  this  longing  to  possess  her  children  grew 
stronger  with  her  every  day,  that  the  old  aban- 
donment to  depravity  utterly  ceased,  that  she  felt 
herself  consciously  moving  towards  strength  of 
will  and  fixity  of  purpose. 

She  put  herself  into  the  hands  of  the  Mission 
to  be  trained  as  a  servant.  They  encouraged  her 
to  think  that  she  should  work  to  support  her 


174  OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

children.  When  she  had  made  sufficient  progress 
they  brought  the  children  to  see  her.  She  knew, 
then,  that  God  had  saved  her. 

For  the  second  time  in  her  life  she  went  out 
to  service.  The  contrast  in  her  condition  is 
striking.  On  the  first  occasion  she  was  wholly 
innocent,  wholly  moral,  wholly  without  the  re- 
ligious sense.  And  on  the  second  occasion  she 
was  a  woman  who  had  lived  in  hell,  who  had 
bedraggled  and  befouled  her  soul  with  the  very 
dregs  of  depravity,  and  yet  was  profoundly  con- 
scious of  God. 

She  was  no  longer  called  upon  to  endure  the 
tyrannous  cruelty  of  a  mad  mistress,  but  her 
situation  was  one  which  might  have  sorely  tried 
the  resolution  of  a  soul  less  firmly  established  in 
the  strength  and  power  of  regeneration.  She 
was  not  happy,  but  she  was  able  to  support  un- 
happiness.  A  quiet  peace  took  possession  of  her; 
she  enjoyed  doing  her  work  well;  she  could  smile 
to  herself  at  the  thought  of  seeing  her  children 
every  week;  she  looked  forward  to  the  service 
of  the  Mission,  and  would  sing  the  hymns  aloud 
in  her  kitchen.  It  was  not  difficult  to  put  up 
with  a  mistress  who  was  for  ever  interrupting 
useful  and  hard  work  with  silly  and  mean  fault- 
findings. She  felt  herself  in  heaven.  And  then 
came  an  end  to  this  fresh  experience  of  domestic 
service.  She  found  herself  admired,  sought,  and 
courted  by  one  whose  proposal  of  marriage  was 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS  175 

so  full  of  the  promise  of  happiness  that  she  could 
not  refuse  it.  She  is  now  a  married  woman, 
the  excellent  manager  of  a  comfortable  home, 
the  devoted  mother  of  her  children,  and  once 
more  the  delighted  servant  of  Respectability,  but 
with  the  knowledge  that  "  one  thing  is  necessary." 
I  can  see  in  her  face  all  the  havoc  of  her 
past  life;  the  whole  countenance  is  marked  by 
a  weakness  and  a  feebleness  which,  one  thinks, 
will  never  pass  away;  the  fineness  of  her  clothes, 
the  great  cleanliness  and  neatness  of  her  appear- 
ance, cannot  in  the  least  disguise  a  marked  heavi- 
ness of  face  and  body  which  express  unmis- 
takably the  torpor  and  lassitude  of  enfeebled 
character.  But  my  feeling  of  disappointment 
and  anxiety  about  her  when  we  first  encountered, 
passed  away  from  my  mind  when  she  turned  to 
the  Sister  and  answered  some  question  about  her 
experience  of  prayer.  Then  the  poor  weak  face 
became  touched  with  a  nobility  which  smoothed 
away  all  traces  of  the  past,  the  dull  eyes  quite 
shone,  and  a  most  gracious  sweetness  to  which 
I  could  never  penetrate  in  conversation,  irradi- 
ated the  instant  smile  with  which  she  answered 
so  eagerly  and  so  gratefully  the  Sister's  question. 
Deep  in  her  soul,  hidden  from  observation,  and 
inarticulate  to  all  mankind,  there  lives,  I  believe, 
something  of  that  spiritual  surety  which  makes 
the  joy  of  the  saints. 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

THERE  is  a  little  community  of  the  West 
London  Mission  which  meets  twice  a 
week  in  the  room  of  a  Board  School, 
and  after  the  singing  of  hymns  and  prayers  for 
God's  assistance,  goes  out  into  the  open  air  and 
holds  a  service  in  one  of  the  wretchedest  streets 
east  or  west,  north  or  south,  in  the  whole  of  the 
metropolis. 

There  is  a  Sister  in  charge  of  this  community; 
she  is  quite  young,  with  a  girl-like  face,  beau- 
tiful bright  hair,  and  a  manner  of  the  most 
captivating  cheerfulness.  The  others  are  young 
people  of  a  humble  class,  workers  for  a  small 
wage,  who  in  shops  and  factories  toil  all  the 
day,  and  are  beset  on  every  side  by  the  cares 
and  temptations  of  such  an  existence.  They 
meet  twice  a  week  to  sing  and  pray  in  the 
Board  School  and  to  go  out  afterwards  into  the 
lamplit  streets  to  testify  to  the  power  of 
Christianity  as  a  giver  of  happiness.  They  are 
missionaries  of  Christianity. 

Among  these  humble  people  there  is  one  older 
than  the  rest,  a  woman  of  forty,  crippled,  de- 
formed,   and   dwarf-like,   who   sits  in   a  bath- 

176 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  177 

chair  at  the  open  door  of  the  room  in  the  Board 
School — the  chair  is  too  wide  to  enter — and  after- 
wards, still  in  her  chair — for  she  has  no  power 
of  motion — occupies  a  place  with  the  little  group 
of  humanity  in  front  of  the  hymn- sheet  at  the 
street-corner.  She  lives  far  away  from  the  scene 
of  this  Mission's  activity.  Two  of  the  young 
men  go  twice  a  week  to  the  place  where  she 
lives,  carry  her  down  the  stairs,  place  her  in 
the  carriage,  draw  her  to  the  Board  School,  lift 
her,  chair  and  all,  up  three  or  four  flights  of 
winding  stairs  to  the  room,  and  after  the  meet- 
ing carry  her  down  again,  take  her  to  the 
service,  and  afterwards  bear  her  back  to  her 
distant  dwelling.  They  never  complain  of  this 
labour.  Mr.  Price  Hughes  described  this  in- 
teresting person  many  years  ago  as  "  the  only 
carriage  lady  in  the  Mission." 

She  is  so  malformed,  as  regards  her  body, 
that  even  her  hands,  with  which  she  earns  her 
living  as  a  tailoress,  are  shrivelled  and  con- 
torted in  a  manner  which  startles  the  sight  and 
hurts  the  feelings.  She  appears  to  have  no 
neck;  the  head  stands  in  the  centre  of  sur- 
rounding shoulders.  The  diminutive  body  ends 
abruptly,  and  dwindles  away  into  an  utter  in- 
capacity. Nevertheless  the  shape  of  the  head 
is  noble  and  dignified;  the  face  is  not  shrunken, 
but  broad  and  full;  there  is  a  sense  of  great 
power  in  the  large  eyes;   the  mouth   is   firm; 


178  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

the  chin  energetic,  the  nose  finely  shaped;  the 
whole  expression   of   the   dark-skinned    counte- 
nance is  one  of  strength  and  resolute  ability. 
In  repose,  she  is  handsome  and  ruggedly  refined. 
When  she  smiles,  which  is  very  often,  the  face 
becomes  lit  with  all  the  drollery  and  flashing 
quickness   of  wit  which  distinguishes  the  true 
Cockney.     Her    conversation     is     a    perpetual 
banter   and   a  constant  persiflage.     She   speaks 
with  a  bewildering  rapidity,  clipping  her  termi- 
nations,  slurring  her  punctuation,   and  getting 
to  her  point  with  a  laugh,  sometimes  derisive. 
She  is  the  good-humour,  common-sense,  cheer- 
fulness, and  impatience  of  sentimentalism  which 
preserve  the  very  poor  people  of  London  from 
despair  and  save  them  from  revolution.     When 
she  converses  with  you,  her  eyes  search  yours, 
watching-  for  the  mood  on  which  she  can  best 
strike  home  the  wit  or  the  maxim  your  conversa- 
tion has  suggested  to  her  mind.     The  perfect 
mobility  of  her  body  at  such  times  intensifies 
the  energy  of  her  face.     All  her  gestures  are 
in  the  movements  of  her  eyes  and  the  lightning 
of  her  expression. 

I  made  her  acquaintance  one  night  in  the 
room  of  the  Board  School.  It  was  an  evening 
of  torrential  rain.  The  young  man  at  the 
harmonium,  near  the  window,  repeatedly  ex- 
claimed, in  the  intervals  of  hymn-singing,  that 
it  was  "  no  go."     The  others  ranged  round  the 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  179 

room  whispered  that  perhaps  the  rain  would  stop 
in  a  few  minutes.  The  Sister  remarked  that 
it  would  be  dreadful  if  they  were  stopped  from 
going  out  into  the  street.  "  Let's  have  another 
hymn,"  said  the  carriage  lady  briskly;  "it's 
sure  to  dry  up  before  we've  finished.  Number 
thirty-six;  that's  a  beauty." 

At  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintance  I  had 
asked  her  whether  I  could  not  move  the  hymn- 
sheet  so  that  she  might  see  it  from  the  door- 
way. She  looked  up  at  me,  smiles  in  her  eyes, 
the  lips  down-drawn  by.  amusement,  and  snapped, 
"  Know  'em  all  by  heart.  Course  I  do !  "  And 
from  that  moment  she  was  singing  with  energy 
and  no  little  sweetness,  never  stumbling  for  a 
word. 

The  rain  fell  and  fell.  "  Not  a  bit  of  good," 
said  the  man  at  the  harmonium. 

"Let  us  pray,"  said  the  Sister,  and  knelt 
down  at  the  table.  The  little  company  turned 
round  and  knelt  at  their  chairs.  The  carriage 
lady  closed  her  eyes.  Then  the  Sister  prayed, 
simply  and  naturally,  and  at  the  conclusion  of 
her  petition  there  was  a  general  Amen,  very 
earnest  and  quiet.  A  pause  followed,  and  I  was 
expecting  a  rising  from  the  knees,  when  a  voice 
quite  close  to  me,  exceedingly  low  and  wonder- 
fully sweet,  raised  itself  to  God.  It  was  the 
voice  of  the  cripple,  praying  in  her  chair  from 
the  doorway. 


180  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

The  prayer  struck  me  as  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  I  have  ever  heard,  not  for  its  language, 
but  for  the  haunting  sweetness  of  its  sincerity. 
Perhaps  the  pathos  of  her  physical  condition 
was  in  some  measure  the  true  author  of  this 
impression;  perhaps  the  general  atmosphere  of 
that  little  room,  with  its  quiet  prayerfulness  and 
its  kneeling  occupants,  while  all  about  on  every 
side  were  the  wretchedness  of  London's  misery 
and  the  depression  of  unceasing  rain,  deepened 
and  intensified  the  effect.  But  there  is  no  ques- 
tion that  the  simple  petition  of  this  poor  crippled 
woman  in  the  doorway  made  upon  one's  mind 
a  more  than  ordinary  impression,  and  its 
memory  is  still  fresh  and  vivid  many  weeks  after 
the  occasion. 

She  prayed  in  this  manner :  "  Almighty  and 
Most  Merciful  God,  our  Heavenly  Father;  grant 
we  beseech  Thee,  if  it  be  Thy  will,  that  the 
rain  may  cease  and  that  we  may  go  into  the 
streets,  to  tell  the  poor  people  of  Thy  great 
love  towards  them,  manifested  in  the  life  and 
death  of  our  Lord  and  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ. 
And  if  it  be  Thy  will  that  we  should  not  go, 
teach  us,  O  Lord,  not  to  be  sad  and  unhappy, 
for  Thy  Holy  Spirit  can  be  there  without  our 
aid,  and  can  lead  all  those  poor  people,  better 
than  we  can  do,  to  the  knowledge  of  Thy  love. 
O  God,  we  pray  Thee,  send  Thy  Holy  Spirit  into 
the  streets  this  night;  touch  the  hearts  of  un- 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  181 

happy  people;  turn  them  away  from  sin  and 
misery;  make  them  to  feel  that  Thou  art  love. 
Teach  the  cruel  parents  to  be  kind  to  their 
children,  and  lead  the  weak  and  foolish  away 
from  temptation.  Save  them,  O  God,  from  all 
their  dangers.  Make  them  to  know  Thee,  the 
only  true  God.  And  this  we  beg,  in  the  Name 
of  our  dear  Saviour,  Thy  Son,  our  Lord  and 
Redeemer,  Jesus  Christ.', 

One  could  not  listen  to  that  prayer,  uttered 
in  a  tone  just  above  a  whisper,  quickly,  earnestly, 
almost  passionately,  without  being  deeply  moved 
and  profoundly  impressed.  I  had  heard  that 
her  influence  in  the  streets  was  extraordinary; 
that  blasphemy  and  ribaldry  became  silenced 
at  her  rebuke,  and  that  molestation  held  its  hand 
at  her  entreaty;  I  had  heard  how  the  worst 
of  people,  the  most  desperate  characters  of  that 
neighbourhood,  men  and  women  alike,  respected 
this  poor  sufferer,  and  how  she  was  so  well 
known  and  honoured  that  policemen  and  cabmen 
would  salute  her  as  they  passed. 

But  now  I  was  more  curious  than  interested. 
I  watched  her  one  evening  in  her  bath-chair 
at  the  street-corner,  surrounded  by  all  that  is 
most  dirty  and  degraded  in  London,  and  I  heard 
her  singing  the  hymns  there,  with  her  eyes  raised 
to  the  black  skies;  and  saw  her  praying  there, 
with  the  eyes  closed,  the  head  bowed,  the  words 
of  her  supplication  drowned  by  the  innumerable 


182  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

clamour   of   the   street.     At   my    side,    leaning 
against  the  closed  shutters  of  a  shop,  were  men 
of    ill-appearance,    with    hard    faces    and    fierce 
eyes,   the   clothes   stamped   with   all   the  marks 
of   a   degrading   destitution.     On    the   opposite 
side  of  the  street  was  a  many-windowed  public- 
house,  bright  with  gaslight,  the  doors  open,  the 
various   compartments   filled    with   an    identical 
swarm  of  dirty  but  hilarious  men  and  women; 
at  an  upper  window,  dressed  in  a  white  blouse, 
her  arms  resting  on  the  edge  of  a  flower-box, 
was  a  barmaid  listening  to  the  hymns  and  watch- 
ing the  people.     Next  door  to  the  tavern  was 
a  butcher's  shop,  the  meat  set  out  in  trays  under 
the  spouting  gas-jets,  the  butchers  walking  or 
lounging  in  front,  sometimes  calling  their  wares, 
more  often  regarding  the  Mission  service  with 
faces  of  amused  disdain.     Everywhere,  from  side 
to  side  of  the  houses,  were  grimy  children,  shout- 
ing and  screaming  at  their  play,  occupying  the 
whole    road    with    chalked-out    spaces,    settling 
their  disputes  with  abuse  at  the  top  of  the  voice 
and  blows  with  all  the  force  of  fury  at  their 
back.     Occasionally  these  grimy  children  would 
throng  round  the  hymn-sheet,  gape  at  the  printed 
words,  glance  at  the  preacher  on  the  rostrum, 
and  then  with  an  impatient  and  disgusted,  "  Oh, 
come  on !  "  dash  back  to  their  play.     Through 
this  herd  of  noisy  children  passed  constantly  soli- 
tary figures,  men  with  grim  faces,  women  with 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  18S 

streaming  hair  and  blotched  skins,  some  of 
them  walking  like  spectres,  others  stumbling  and 
swaying  like  the  swine  of  Epicurus — a  few  of 
them  glancing  with  dull  interest  at  the  mission- 
aries, some  of  them  tossing  their  heads  in  a  scorn 
that  was  almost  hatred,  most  of  them  passing  into 
the  darkness  without  a  sign  of  anything. 

While  the  preacher  was  declaring  in  the  midst 
of  this  clamour,  and  surrounded  by  all  this  in- 
difference and   mockery,   the   story   of   Christ's 
revelation  and  the  power  of  Christianity  to  save 
the  worst  people  from  sin  and  to  make  the  most 
miserable  people  happy,  I  saw  a  sight  just  at  the 
corner  of  the  street,  which  made  me   feel   for 
the  moment  sick  with  disgust.     As  sunken  and 
degraded  a  woman  as  you  can  imagine,  all  rags 
and  dirt  and  dishevelment,  drunk  at  the  point 
of  grinning   foolishness,   singing   and   laughing 
and  staggering,  a  jug  in  her  hands,  her  shawl 
hanging    backward    from    her    head,    her    dis- 
coloured   face   and  glazed   blue   eyes   luminous 
in  the  gaslight,  came  round  the  corner  of  the 
street,  and  was  just  in  my  view,  when  a  dog 
sprang  at  her,  and  growled  and  barked  at  her, 
as  though  she  was  something  too  vile  and   loath- 
some even  for  that  dreadful  place.     It  was  the 
contrast  between   dog  and   woman  that  struck 
me.     The  dog  was  a  noble  collie,  brown  and 
white,  its  coat  brushed,  its  body  well  nourished. 
It  had  conscious  dignity,  conscious  intelligence, 


184*  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

beauty  of  form,  and  a  superb  grace  of  move- 
ment. Its  bark  was  contemptuous  and  indig- 
nant. One  saw  in  its  spring  towards  the  woman 
the  force  and  energy  of  an  outraged  sense  of 
grandeur,  a  recognition  in  the  harridan  of 
something  vile  and  scandalous  which  it  resented. 
And  the  woman  received  this  disdain  of  the 
dog  with  amusement.  She  stood  still,  stooped 
her  dreadful  face  almost  to  the  dog's  level,  and 
began  to  bark  at  it,  laugh  at  it,  grin  at  it,  thrust- 
ing the  jug  towards  it,  making  little  springs 
towards  it  on  her  broken  boots,  glancing  up  at 
the  people  for  their  applause  of  her  courage  and 
her  humour. 

It  was  a  vile  spectacle,  and  I  turned  away 
from  it,  sick  with  disgust,  to  encounter  the  eyes 
of  the  cripple  in  the  chair,  which  were  full  of 
kindness  and  hope. 

Curiosity  about  this  interesting  woman,  a 
feeling  almost  of  affection  for  her  whimsical 
and  valorous  nature,  led  me  to  seek  for  the 
ways  and  means  which  had  brought  her  into 
the  wonderful  field  of  religious  action.  Why, 
I  asked  myself,  was  this  noble-faced  woman, 
with  her  poor  crippled  body,  praising  God  at 
a  street-corner;  while  that  other  woman,  be- 
fouled and  befuddled,  barked  and  grimaced  at 
a  dog  which  disdained  her  depravity?  What 
influences  had  surrounded  her  in  childhood? 
through  what  mental  changes  had   she   passed 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  185 

in  her  narrow  life  of  toil  and  hardship?  by  what 
means  had  she  come  to  feel  convinced  that  it 
was  her  duty  to  serve  God  in  the  street  ? 

The  story  is  brief,  simple,  undramatic;  but 
it  brings  home  to  one,  I  think,  all  the  more 
unchallengeably  for  its  simplicity,  a  truth  very 
necessary  for  scepticism  to  reflect  upon  in  this 
matter  of  conversion — that  the  beginnings  of  new 
birth  are  often  trivial,  the  growth  in  religious 
knowledge  is  almost  unnoticed,  the  moment 
of  illumination  never  determined,  and  the 
character  of  the  after-life,  a  completely  changed 
and  a  wholly  converted  life,  as  free  from 
mental  disturbance  or  hysteria  as  the  process 
itself. 

She  was  born  in  a  crippled  condition,  of  poor 
parents,  in  a  very  shabby  and  neglected  quarter 
of  central  London.  Her  childhood  was  marred 
by  her  deformity,  and  she  felt  her  disability 
with  all  the  suppressed  resentment  of  a  child's 
impulsion  towards  joy.  There  was  always  a 
struggle  to  get  a  living  in  her  family,  and  of 
this  she  was  made  aware  in  several  ways.  Life 
appeared  to  her  from  the  very  first  an  oppres- 
sion and  a  misery.  She  was  taught  to  work  as 
soon  as  she  was  old  enough  to  thread  a  needle, 
and  on  the  tailor's  board  this  little  deformed 
child  would  sit  from  morning  till  night,  helping 
to  earn  the  family's  bread.  She  was  taught 
nothing  at   all   about   religion.     In   a   shadowy 


186  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

and  never  contemplated  manner,  she  felt  that 
religion  stood  for  something  poetical,  non- 
sensical, and  unreal;  something  which  had  no 
connection  at  all  with  crippled  bodies,  tailoring, 
and  nights  of  sleepless  pain;  she  never  gave  it  a 
thought. 

She  was  often  very  ill,  and  towards  woman- 
hood these  attacks  of  pain  and  weakness  in- 
creased. The  mother  had  a  sister  living  in  a 
small  Norfolk  village,  and  writing  to  her  on 
one  occasion  she  mentioned  the  cripple's  condi- 
tion; and  the  answer  to  this  letter  was  an  in- 
vitation for  the  girl  and  her  brother  to  visit  the 
aunt. 

Now  this  aunt  was  kind  but  fussy,  religious 
but  without  attraction.  She  was  far  more  con- 
cerned for  her  visitors  when  she  discovered  the 
state  of  their  souls  than  when  she  first  caught 
sight  of  their  white  faces  and  hollow  cheeks; 
she  was  far  more  distressed  when  she  heard 
their  conversation  than  when  she  saw  their  un- 
tidy habits  and  the  marks  of  the  boy's  dirty 
boots  on  a  clean  floor.  She  set  herself  to  lighten 
their  darkness,  to  improve  their  manners,  and  to 
nourish  their  poor  bodies.  In  the  last  respect, 
she  succeeded;  in  the  second,  she  had  an  indif- 
ferent success ;  in  the  first,  she  failed. 

All  that  she  said  about  religion  struck  the  Lon- 
doners as  unreal  and  ridiculous.  They  listened 
with  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks.     When  they 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  187 

were  alone,  they  laughed  at  the  old  woman.  To 
them  the  great  and  real  things,  visible  before  their 
eyes,  and  delicious  in  their  hearts,  were  the  wide 
pastures,  the  green  woods,  the  moving  waters, 
the  splendours  of  the  sky;  they  loved  birds  and 
butterflies  and  animals ;  every  hedgerow  for  them 
was  full  of  adventure  and  enchantment;  they 
could  not  have  enough  of  these  things:;  every 
mention  of  religion  was  tiresome,  a  restriction, 
the  powder  of  grown-ups  in  the  jam  of  youth. 
So  it  came  about  that  when  their  aunt  told  them 
to  go  to  chapel  on  Sunday,  and  saw  them  off 
from  her  door,  the  brother  said  at  the  first  bend 
of  the  road,  "  You  needn't  go,  if  you  don't  want 
to.  You  can  say  we  went.  She  won't  know." 
And  they  played  truant,  and  told  a  lie,  and 
thought  nothing  about  it. 

A  new  excitement  was  presently  provided  by 
the  arrival  in  that  part  of  the  village  of  a 
caravan.  It  was  owned  by  a  captain  retired 
from  the  army,  who  with  his  wife  went  up  and 
down  the  country  as  missionaries  of  the  Christian 
religion,  talking  to  the  people,  giving  them 
tracts,  and  holding  open-air  services.  The  van 
naturally  attracted  the  attention  of  the  two 
Londoners,  and  as  naturally  the  deformed  body 
and  suffering  face  of  the  London  girl  attracted 
the  sympathy  of  the  lady  missionary.  She  made 
acquaintance  with  the  poor  girl,  interested  her 
in   the   caravan,   talked   to  her   about    religion, 


188  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

gave  her  a  tract,  and  asked  her  to  come  to  the 
service. 

"  What  that  lady  said  to  me,"  narrates  the 
cripple,  *'  made  no  more  impression  on  me  than 
rain  on  a  bobby's  cape.  I  didn't  understand  a 
half  of  it,  and  the  other  half  didn't  seem  to  me 
to  make  sense.  I  just  let  her  talk,  looking  down 
on  her  for  a  crank  in  my  mind,  and  not  worry- 
ing my  head  about  the  matter  one  little  bit. 
She  came  and  saw  me  several  times,  talked  to 
me  as  per  usual,  and  every  time  it  was  just  the 
same — I  thought  she  was  trying  to  get  at  me, 
and  I  knew  jolly  well  I  wasn't  having  any !  But, 
do  you  know,  after  she  had  gone  away,  I  began 
to  think  about  her!  She  kind  of  haunted  me. 
I  couldn't  remember  a  thing  she  had  said,  mind 
you;  not  a  single  thing;  but  I  could  remember 
her  face,  every  smile  in  it,  her  voice,  all  the 
music  in  it,  and  her  manner,  which  was  some- 
thing so  beautiful  I  can't  describe  it  to  you.  I  got 
thinking  and  thinking  about  her,  when  I  was 
out  in  the  fields  and  when  I  was  lying  in  my  bed, 
till  her  lovely  face  was  as  real  to  me  as  if  I  had  it 
before  my  eyes.  And  I  thought,  How  sweet 
she  was!  How  kind  she  was!  What  a  lovely 
lady  she  was  altogether!  It's  very  strange,  but 
it's  true,  as  the  Lord  knows,  that  my  heart  was 
touched  for  the  first  time  by  the  smile  in  the 
lady's  eyes,  by  the  music  in  her  voice,  by  the 
kind  way  she  had  of  looking  at  me  and  talking 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  189 

to  me — and  not  by  any  single  word  she  said! 
And  what  do  you  think  happened?  I  began  to 
pray.  I  never  said  a  word  to  any  one,  and  of 
course  I  couldn't  kneel  down,  but  I  used  to 
close  my  eyes  and  pray  to  God  that  I  might 
become  like  that  lady!  Yes,  that  was  my  first 
prayer.  And  the  more  I  prayed  and  the  more 
I  wanted  to  be  sweet  and  kind  like  her,  the  more 
I  felt  how  different  I  was,  the  more  I  seemed 
to  feel  that  I  was  something  dreadfully  inferior. 
That  was  how  I  got  to  know  something  was 
wrong  with  me.     I  didn't  know  what  it  was.     All 

I  knew  was  this — that  Mrs. was  something 

pure  and  sweet  and  nice,  and  that  because  I 
couldn't  feel  myself  like  her  there  must  be  some- 
thing wrong  with  me.  I  seemed  to  feel  that 
God  loved  her,  but  could  never  love  me.  That 
made  me  think  hard.  It  didn't  make  me  afraid. 
It  just  made  me  think — only  very  hard  indeed. 
I  began  to  feel  a  desire,  a  regular  hunger  and 
thirst,  for  God's  love.  I  wanted  to  be  better,  so 
that  He  could  love  me.     I  knew  that  if  I  could 

only  be  like  Mrs.  He  would  bless  me  and 

surround  me  with  His  love.  But  I  was  wicked, 
sharp-tempered,  bitter,  revengeful,  foul-mouthed, 
foul-minded,  as  dark  as  a  heathen.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  I  should  ever  get  to  be  like  Mrs. 

,  and  almost  hopeless  that  I  should  ever  be 

different  from  what  I  was.  But  I  wanted  to  be 
like  her  so  much,  and  I  was  so  ashamed  of  being 


190  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

what  I  was,  and  the  only  way  I  could  think  of 
changing  myself  was  by  prayer,  that  I  went  on 
praying  morning  and  evening,  and  all  the  day 
through. 

"  The  first  knowledge  I  had  of  the  wonder- 
ful power  of  prayer  came  to  me  little  by  little; 
it  didn't  come  all  at  once,  and  it  didn't  startle 
me  when  it  came;  it  was  marvellous,  but  it 
was  as  natural  as  growing  up.  I  found  myself 
quiet  and  peaceful  in  the  brain.  All  the  worry 
seemed  to  die  away.  It  had  been  like  a  grey 
autumn  day  in  my  mind,  all  drizzle  and  misery, 
and  now  it  was  like  a  morning  in  spring.  Very 
early  morning,  mind  you;  the  birds  hadn't 
started  to  sing,  and  the  sun  hadn't  got  right  up; 
but  it  wasn't  the  night,  and  the  skies  weren't 
black,  and  there  was  freshness  in  the  air  and  dew 
on  the  grass,  and  I  seemed  to  feel  all  through 
me  that  it  was  going  to  be  a  lovely  day. 

"  This  was  my  first  knowledge  of  how  God 
answers  prayer,  and  all  my  experience  of  prayer 
has  been  similar.  The  answer  has  come  gradu- 
ally, peacefully,  quite  quietly,  as  if  it  didn't 
want  to  make  a  noise  and  be  found  out.  Of 
course  I've  seen  people  converted  in  a  moment, 
directly  they  cried  out  for  mercy;  but  with  me 
it  has  always  been  the  long  way  round,  and  that 
has  suited  me  better  than  anything  else. 

"  If  I  was  to  put  it  in  a  single  phrase,  I 
should  say  my  first  experience  of  answered  prayer 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  191 

was  a  gradual  feeling  of  inward  peace.  All  my 
anger  at  being  a  cripple  went  out  of  my  mind; 
all  my  wishing  to  be  this,  that,  and  the  other 
thing  disappeared;  and  all  my  feeling  of  being 
bad  went  with  it.     I  was  restful,  peaceful,  happy. 

"  When  I  really  appreciated  what  had  hap- 
pened to  my  nature,  of  course  it  made  me  think 
about  the  power  of  prayer;  and  thinking  about 
this  power  of  prayer  led  me  to  think  about 
Him  in  whose  Name  all  my  prayers  had  been 
made.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  set  about 
thinking  of  Christ,  thinking  of  Him  just  as  I 

had  thought  of  Mrs.  .     I  let  myself  dream, 

as  it  were;  and  my  dreaming  was  about  the 
Saviour,  Who  had  lived  on  the  earth  with  His 
disciples,  and  had  taught  men  that  God  is  a 
Father,  that  prayer  is  answered,  that  God  loves 
sinners  and  wants  to  save  them,  and  Who  was 
always  kind  and  gentle  and  meek,  and  Who  yet 
had  to  suffer,  and  died  so  cruelly  with  all  His  ene- 
mies mocking  at  Him  and  all  His  friends  afraid 
to  be  near  Him. 

"  I  think,  but  I  can't  be  certain  now,  that 
it  was  the  thought  of  His  sacrifice  which  really 
gave  me  a  changed  heart.  I  thought  about  that 
till  I  lost  myself.  I  remember  it  was  always 
in  my  mind — how  He  had  laid  down  His  life, 
how  He  had  borne  suffering  and  death,  all  for 
the  sake  of  other  people.  And  when  I  say  a 
changed  heart,  I  mean  a  heart  not  only  restful 


192  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

and  quiet,  for  that  can  be  selfish  enough;  but  a 
heart  that  cannot  be  at  rest  and  cannot  be  quiet, 
unless  it  is  doing  something  for  the  Saviour 
Who  has  done  so  much  for  it.  I  know  that  I  be- 
gan to  long  for  some  way  of  making  myself  His 
servant.  I  wanted  to  serve  Him  humbly  and  sin- 
cerely. I  wanted  to  make  other  people,  for  His 
sake,  as  happy  as  He  had  made  me.  I  didn't 
want  to  sit  still  and  think  of  my  own  salvation. 
I  couldn't  have  done  that.  If  I  had  tried  it,  I 
should  have  been  miserable  instead  of  grateful. 
No;  I  wanted  to  be  useful,  wanted  to  spread  the 
knowledge  of  His  love,  wanted  to  make  His  light 
so  shine  before  men  that  they  might  glorify  His 
Father  which  is  in  heaven.  But  what  could  I  do  ? 
I  was  but  a  poor  little  cripple,  bound  to  work 
from  early  morning  till  late  at  night  for  my  liv- 
ing; I  wasn't  clever,  I  wasn't  good  to  look  at, 
and  I  couldn't  get  about — even  if  I  had  had  the 
leisure  to  comfort  unhappy  people  and  try  to 
stop  the  bad  from  living  without  God.  So  what 
could  I  do  ?  Well,  there  was  one  thing.  I  could 
pray  for  God  to  show  me  how  I  might  serve  Him. 

"  And  that  prayer  was  answered,  too. 

"  I  was  back  in  London,  working  hard,  and 
just  talking  quietly  at  home  about  the  change 
in  my  thoughts,  and  not  knowing  how  I  could 
serve  my  Saviour,  but  praying  for  it,  when  one 
evening  I  heard  some  singing  in  the  street,  and 
looking  out  of  window  saw  a  few  people  with 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  193 

a  harmonium  at  the  corner,  and  heard  them 
singing  a  hymn  I  knew.  It  came  to  me  that 
here  was  my  chance.  Those  people,  I  thought 
to  myself,  have  felt  what  I  have  felt;  they 
have  been  wanting  to  serve  the  Master;  and 
this  is  how  they  do  it — standing  at  a  street- 
corner  and  reminding  people  by  their  presence 
that  there  is  a  God,  that  there  is  a  life  after 
death,  and  that  Christ  came  into  the  world  to 
save  sinners.  This  is  what  /  should  like  to  do, 
and  this  is  what  I  can  do,  if  only  I  can  get 
somebody  to  carry  me  down.  And  that  is  how 
I  came  to  join  the  West  London  Mission,  from 
its  very  start;  and  since  I  joined  it  I've  been 
so  happy  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  has  been  to 
me.  I  don't  suffer  anything  like  the  pain  I 
used  to  do,  and  my  mind  is  never  miserable  and 
moping.  I  feel  as  if  I've  got  a  meaning  in  the 
world,  and  the  chance  of  being  useful  in  life. 
And  the  people  who  come  to  us  in  the  streets 
help  me  to  be  quite  certain  that  we  are  serving 
Christ," 

Here  in  this  artless  confession  one  has  a  story 
of  an  indubitable  and  complete  conversion, 
which,  thoughtfully  considered,  is  as  helpful  and 
remarkable  as  any  of  those  instantaneous  and 
vehement  instances  of  alteration  in  personality 
which  are  too  often  regarded  as  the  sole  illus- 
trations of  a  profound  spiritual  change.  One 
may  justly  challenge  scepticism  to  explain  how 


194  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

such  a  revolution  in  character  was  produced  by 
"  natural  causes  " — auto-suggestion  and  the  rest 
— and  inquire  whether  it  is  possible  for  a  change 
so  deep  and  dispassionate,  so  gentle  and  rational, 
so  tranquil  and  lasting — for  the  changed  heart 
has  "  grown  in  grace "  for  more  than  twenty 
years — to  be  the  effect  of  illusion  and  the  fruit 
of  a  phantasm.  But  it  is  wiser  than  any 
challenge  or  inquiry  addressed  to  scepticism,  to 
reflect  upon  this  narrative  from  the  position  of 
faith  and  to  observe  how  nobly  it  illustrates  a 
supreme  truth  in  the  religion  of  Christianity, 
and  one  which  has  been  equally  obscured  by 
the  philosophising  tendency  of  theology  and  the 
repellent  un-Christlike  hysteria  of  revivalism. 

The  phrase  "  growth  in  grace "  accurately 
describes  the  normal  operations  of  conversion. 
It  is  none  the  less  a  case  of  conversion,  where 
a  man  turns  about  slowly  and  gradually,  and 
finds  himself,  without  being  able  to  mark  the 
moment  or  to  define  the  sensation,  facing  in  a 
direction  clean  contrary  to  the  march  of  his 
whole  former  existence.  The  miracle  is  there, 
though  it  be  less  apparent  than  in  cases  of 
sudden  and  violent  alterations  in  character,  when 
a  man  is,  as  it  were,  caught  by  the  hair,  and 
swung  round  in  a  dazzling  instant  from  the  very 
edge  of  destruction.  To  change  habits,  to  alter 
character — however  it  be  done — is  always  the 
work  of  some  power  which  is  not  included  and 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  195 

cannot  be  included  in  the  text-books  of  a  logical 
materialism;  but  so  to  change  habits,  and  so 
to  alter  character  that  the  person  is  wholly  trans- 
formed out  of  the  likeness  of  his  former  self 
and  becomes  a  new  being  conscious  of  quite 
other  emotions,  and  conscious  of  a  joy  which 
only  changes  to  deepen  as  the  years  advance, 
this  can  only  be  the  effect  of  a  cause  beyond 
the  definition  of  human  reason  and  the  opera- 
tion of  a  power  beyond  the  limits  of  human  ac- 
complishment. 

And  it  is  this  great  work  which  is  everywhere 
being  done  by  the  religion  which  believes  in 
miracle.  Wherever  Christianity  makes  its  appeal 
to  the  heart,  however  crude  the  manner  of  its 
appeal  and  however  un-Christlike  its  attitude  to 
everything  else,  there  you  will  find  witness  to  this 
miraculous  power.  It  is  the  appeal  to  the  heart, 
and  an  unswerving  demand  for  a  cleansed  heart, 
which  not  only  accomplishes  the  miracles  of 
Christianity,  but  which  alone  is  Christianity 
itself.  "  Though  ye  believe  not  Me,  believe  the 
works."  And  the  point  I  would  insist  upon 
is  this — that  overwhelming,  quite  overwhelming 
and  unanswerable  would  be  the  testimony  of 
these  works,  if  all  who  preach  the  Christian 
religion  to  the  world,  and  all  the  whole  force  of 
an  organised  and  world-wide  Christendom,  were 
so  directed  as  to  bring  home  to  men's  minds  this 
supreme  aspect  of  Christianity,  that  it  is  a  means 


196  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

infallible  and  unconditioned  whereby  the  heart 
may  be  cleansed,  the  joy  of  life  restored,  and  the 
soul  of  a  man  born  again. 

"  Too  soon  did  the  Doctors  of  the  Church 
forget  that  the  Heart,  the  Moral  Nature,  was  the 
beginning  and  the  end;  and  that  Truth,  Knowl- 
edge, and  Insight  were  comprehended  in  its 
expansion.  This  was  the  true  and  first  apostasy 
— when  in  Council  and  Synod  the  Divine 
Humanities  of  the  Gospel  gave  way  to  specula- 
tive Systems,  and  Religion  became  a  Science  of 
Shadows.  .  .  ." 

It  is  the  break-up  of  the  speculative  Systems 
which  is  now  causing  what  is  termed  religious 
unrest.  It  is  the  recognition  of  the  first 
principles  of  Christianity  which  can  alone  give 
back  to  the  Church  her  enthusiasm  and  to 
religion  its  power.  It  is  faith  in  the  power  of 
love  and  kindness,  faith  in  the  force  and  reality 
of  prayer,  faith  in  the  invisible  and  miraculous 
operations  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  faith  in  Christ  as 
the  only  Saviour  and  Redeemer  of  humanity — it 
is  only  this  simple  and  unquestionable  Chris- 
tianity which  can  cleanse  the  heart  and  convert 
the  soul. 

How  much  encouragement  there  is  in  this 
narrative  for  those  devout  people  who  desire  to 
serve  their  Master  actively,  and  who  believe  in 
the  necessity  of  new  birth,  but  who  shrink,  either 
from  a  natural  nervousness  or  a  hyper-sensitive- 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  197 

ness  of  refinement,  from  the  bold  and  difficult 
life  of  the  preacher.  For,  the  woman  of  this 
story,  so  changed,  so  sweetened,  so  illumined, 
traces  her  first  misgivings  of  self,  her  first  pure 
ambition,  and  her  first  consciousness  of  the 
spiritual  life,  to  the  influence  of  a  kind  face,  a 
gentle  voice,  an  attractive  manner.  How  many- 
men  and  women  who  followed  the  Christ 
would  have  confessed  to  a  like  beginning  of 
the  new  birth!  It  is  possible  to  work  for  the 
regeneration  of  men  and  to  be  the  human  means 
of  the  most  profound  conversions,  without 
preaching  in  church  or  street,  without  even 
working  with  a  particular  religious  organisation, 
provided  that  with  all  charity  and  all  sweetness 
one  goes  among  the  lost  and  the  unhappy, 
and  ministering  to  the  heart,  makes  it  quite  clear, 
yet  without  emphasis,  that  one's  life  is  devoted 
to  the  service  of  a  sinner-loving  and  a  sinner- 
saving  Christ. 

Consider,  too,  from  this  story,  how  Christianity 
alone  can  bring  blessing  and  joy,  can  alone 
adequately  solve  the  problems  of  human  life. 
Let  it  be  supposed  that  the  State  had  taken  this 
crippled  tailoress  by  the  hand,  had  decreed  that 
she  should  work  only  eight  hours  a  day,  had 
provided  her  with  treble  the  wages  she  had 
hitherto  earned,  had  placed  her  in  a  model 
lodging-house,  had  turned  a  graveyard  under  her 
window  into  an  open  space,  had  sent  a  band  to 


198  THE  CARRIAGE  LADY 

play  there  three  times  a  week,  had  given  her 
the  certain  hope  of  a  pension  in  her  old  age, 
a  sick  fund  in  her  hour  of  need,  and  a  decent 
burial  for  the  end  of  her  mortality — suppose 
that  all  which  it  is  possible  for  humanity,  politics, 
and  political  economy  to  do  had  been  done  for 
this  unhappy  child,  dare  the  most  enthusiastic 
apostle  of  materialism  asseverate  that  the  char- 
acter of  the  woman  would  be  now  so  entirely 
lovable  and  sweet,  that  her  heart  would  be  now 
so  absolutely  full  of  peace,  that  her  future  would 
be  now  so  unsparingly  majestic,  that  she  herself 
would  be  so  noble  and  exalting  and  helpful  a 
representative  of  human  nature? 

Christianity  has  to  be  insisted  upon — most 
strange  and  lamentable  to  relate — as  a  blessing 
to  humanity.  It  is  not  an  opposition  to  political 
reform;  it  is  a  force  which  transcends  political 
reform,  and  bestows  a  superior  happiness. 
Political  reform,  where  it  is  society  organising 
itself  without  God,  is  an  enemy  of  evolution, 
the  subtlest  and  deadliest  of  dangers  to  human 
nature.  It  intensifies  selfishness,  it  narrows 
vision,  it  pollards  the  affections,  and  it  deprives 
growth  of  its  most  potent  energy — the  intuitions 
and  seekings  and  aspirations  of  a  man's  soul. 
Christianity  declares  that  in  selfishness  there  is 
neither  satisfaction  nor  happiness;  it  makes 
animal  gratification  not  an  end  of  existence  but 
an   enemy   of   life;   it   teaches   that   a   sublime 


THE  CARRIAGE  LADY  199 

forgetf ulness  of  self,  a  searching  compassion  for 
the  sufferings  of  others,  and  service  to  humanity 
of  however  humble,  arduous,  and  unrewarded 
a  nature,  create  a  character  and  bestow  a  happi- 
ness so  different  from  human  nature  that  it  is 
in  very  truth  a  birth  into  a  new  life. 

Is  it  necessary  to  insist  upon  this  shining 
superiority  of  Christianity?  Against  all  the 
shouting  and  warring  promises  of  political 
Utopias,  one  has  but  to  set  the  Beatitudes, 
"  Blessed  are  the  meek.  Blessed  are  the  pure. 
Blessed  are  the  peacemakers."  How  vast  the 
superiority!  And  against  the  enticements  of 
a  selfish  and  animal  materialism,  one  has  but  to 
think,  for  a  convincing  contrast,  of  the  life  to 
which  the  blessing  is  promised — "  I  was  an 
hungred,  and  ye  gave  me  meat:  I  was  thirsty, 
and  ye  gave  me  drink:  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye 
took  me  in:  naked,  and  ye  clothed  me:  I  was 
sick,  and  ye  visited  me;  I  was  in  prison,  and  ye 
came  unto  me."  How  inexpressible  the  superi- 
ority ! 

One  does  not  mean,  of  course,  that  there  is 
no  call  for  political  reform.  One  means  that 
because  so  great  is  that  call,  the  more  imperious 
is  the  necessity  for  Christianising  the  reforma- 
tion. And  the  beginning  of  all  reformation  lies 
at  the  heart  and  with  the  individual. 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

IN  her  sitting-room  Sister  Mildred  was  writ- 
ing letters.  The  open  window,  from  which 
one  sees  neighbouring  walls  and  distant 
roofs,  admitted  the  sleepy  spirit  of  an  autumn 
afternoon.  The  noise  of  invisible  streets,  thin- 
ning in  its  aerial  ascent,  entered  the  apartment 
with  a  soothing  dulness.  Every  time  she  finished 
a  letter  and  added  it  to  the  little  pile  in  front  of 
her,  Sister  Mildred  looked  at  the  clock  and  was 
conscious  of  a  desire  for  tea. 

She  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  her  correspond- 
ence, when  the  loneliness  of  her  situation  and 
the  monotony  of  the  afternoon  were  interrupted 
by  the  ringing  of  a  bell.  She  rose  from  the  table, 
and  went  to  the  door. 

A  girl  stood  there  whose  manner  betrayed 
a  very  genuine  distress  of  soul.  Without  asking 
why  she  had  come,  or  who  she  was,  the  Sister 
invited  her  in.  "You  are  unhappy,"  she  said; 
"  come  in,  and  let  us  talk  about  it." 

The  girl,  who  was  trembling  with  nervousness 
and  whose  eyes  were  filled  with  a  dreadful  terror, 
suffered  the  Sister  to  lead  her  into  the  sitting- 
room.     She  was  quite  young,  and,  in  spite  of 

200 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER  201 

her  agitation,  wonderfully  pretty  in  an  innocent 
and  childish  fashion.  Nothing  in  her  dress  sug- 
gested the  boldness  of  the  courtesan  or  the  vul- 
garity of  the  suburbs.  The  voice  was  gentle  and 
caressing. 

"  I  have  heard  about  you,"  she  explained 
hastily.  "  I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind  if  I 
asked  you  to  help  me." 

The  Sister  made  her  sit  down.  "  There  is 
plenty  of  time,"  she  said.  "  Tell  me  how  I  can 
help  you?  " 

"  I  want  to  get  out  of  this  life.  I  have  had 
a  letter.  It  has  made  me  wretched."  Tears 
swam  into  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  trembled.  "  It 
is  from  my  mother."  She  produced  a  letter. 
"  Will  you  read  it?  "  she  asked,  and  stretched  out 
her  hand.  While  the  Sister  was  reading,  the 
girl  laboured  to  suppress  her  sobs. 

The  mother's  letter,  which  was  written  from 
a  country  town,  began  by  thanking  the  girl  for 
a  present  of  money,  and  proceeded  to  beg  for  a 
visit  from  this  dearly  loved  daughter.  "  It  is 
two  years  since  I  have  seen  you,"  wrote  the 
mother,  "  and  I  do  long  for  a  sight  of  your  dear 
face.  Won't  they  give  you  a  holiday  so  that  you 
can  come  and  see  me,  if  it  is  only  for  a  few 
days  ? '  The  letter  closed  with  a  mother's  prayer 
to  God  for  the  protection  of  her  child. 

As  Sister  Mildred  folded  the  sheet,  the  girl 
said,  with  a  burst  of  tears,  "  Oh,  I'm  so  wretched! 


202  A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

She  thinks  I'm  in  a  shop.  She  believes  that  the 
money  I  send  her  comes  out  of  my  wages.     If 

she  knew !     Oh,   she  would  rather  see  me 

dead  than  living  this  life!  What  can  I  do?  I 
want  to  leave  it;  I  want  to  be  different;  but  I 
can't — I'm  afraid.  And  when  I'm  miserable 
I  drink,  and  drink  makes  me  worse.  I  feel  I 
shall  go  mad.  It's  getting  more  than  I  can  bear. 
This  letter — you  can  understand  what  it  is  to  me. 
I  love  my  mother." 

The  Sister  said  to  her,  "  Try  and  be  calm  while 
I  tell  you  something."  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
stained  and  frightened  face  of  the  girl,  and 
said,  "  After  such  a  letter  you  must  never  sin 
again." 

The  girl  would  have  interrupted,  but  the  Sister 
proceeded,  "  And  you  need  not." 

It  was  a  case  which  seemed,  on  the  face  of  it, 
easy  to  cure.  The  pretty  child  was  not  hard- 
ened; she  was  kind,  gentle,  dutiful;  she  had  saved 
money  and  sent  it  to  her  mother;  she  was  con- 
scious of  shame;  she  desired  to  be  better.  There 
was  only  one  difficulty.  The  girl  was  visibly  the 
victim  of  alcohol. 

Sympathy  in  such  a  case  must  go  hand  in  hand 
with  sternness.  The  drowning  soul  has  to  be 
reached  at  all  costs.  The  enfeebled  will  has  to  be 
roused  into  action. 

It  was  pitiful  for  the  Sister  to  see  this  young 
girl,  so  broken  and  miserable,  so  kind  and  timid, 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER  203 

so  modest  and  sensitive,  sitting  before  her  with 
all  the  remorse  of  the  Magdalen,  but  with  a  poison 
in  her  blood  and  a  cloud  over  her  intellect,  which 
made  her  as  much  a  case  for  the  doctor  as  a  peni- 
tent for  the  love  of  Christ.  She  desired  to  take 
this  poor  child  into  her  arms,  to  mother  that 
wounded  heart  and  console  that  frightened  spirit, 
but  the  time  for  love  had  not  come. 

"  You  must  not  only  hate  your  present  life,'' 
she  said  quietly ;  "  you  must  long  for  a  better 
one." 


I  do,  but 

"If  you  really  long  to  live  a  good  life,  I  can 
help  you  to  begin  it,  at  once." 

"  But " 

"  It  is  quite  easy.  You  need  not  return  to 
the  bad  life  for  a  minute.  From  this  moment 
you  can  begin  to  live  the  better  life.  I  can 
take  you  to  a  place  where  kindness  will  surround 
you  on  every  side,  where  life  is  healthy  and  pure, 
and  where  you  can  be  taught  to  earn  your  own 
living  in  a  way  that  is  honourable.  Think! 
You  will  be  able  to  go  and  see  your  mother. 
You  will  be  able  to  meet  her  eyes  without  shame. 
When  she  kisses  you,  you  will  not  hate  yourself. 
Isn't  that  worth  while  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  be  saved.  Yes,  I  should  think 
it  was  worth  while!  But  there's  a  man.  I'm 
not  free.  My  body  is  black  and  blue  with  his 
beatings.     I'm  afraid  of  him.     He  lives  on  my 


204  A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

earnings.  He  makes  me  go  into  the  streets. 
Do  you  think  he  will  let  me  go !  He  will  follow 
me  to  the  grave." 

"  You  must  not  be  afraid.     No  one  can  hurt 


you. 

"  He  will  get  hold  of  me.  I'm  sure  he  will. 
I  tried  to  get  away  from  him  before,  but  he 
found  me  and  made  me  go  back.  Those  men 
are  terrible.  You  never  get  out  of  their 
clutches. " 

"  If  I  promise  to  protect  you,  will  you  come 
with  me?  If  I  promise  you  that  no  one  can 
compel  you  to  live  a  bad  life,  will  you  believe 
me?" 

"  I  am  afraid  of  that  man." 

"  He  can't  hurt  you." 

"Will  you  come  with  me  to  the  flat?  If  I 
went  alone  he  would  never  let  me  go.  All  my 
things  are  there.  I  don't  think  I  should  be  so 
frightened  if  you  came  with  me." 

"  I  will  come  with  you." 

"You  aren't  afraid?" 

"  I  am  not  afraid." 

They  started  out  and  drove  to  the  flat  where 
this  girl  lived  as  the  slave  of  a  scoundrel.  It 
was  twilight.  The  lamps  shone  palely  in  the 
streets,  and  the  pavements  were  crowded  with 
people  going  home  from  their  work.  The  sun 
had  gone  down  in  superb  splendour  and  on  the 
topmost    windows    of    the    houses    there    still 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER  205 

lingered  the  fire  of  his  passing.  A  breathless 
day  was  followed  by  a  still  evening. 

Only  here  and  there  in  the  block  of  flats 
where  the  girl  lived  did  a  light  show  in  the 
window.  The  huge  and  smoke-grimed  building, 
standing  aside  from  the  main  streets,  wore  a 
threatening  and  forbidding  aspect.  It  was  like 
a  prison.     It  had  the  smirch  of  iniquity. 

The  Sister  knew  that  the  whole  place  was 
given  over  to  evil  purposes.  She  knew  that  no 
help  would  be  given  from  inside.  In  case  of 
violence  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  descend 
to  the  streets.  She  was  not  afraid,  but  she  was 
conscious  of  apprehension  and  a  vague  alarm. 
However  many  policemen  may  walk  the  streets 
outside,  it  is  no  easy  matter  for  a  woman  to  face 
one  of  these  panders  in  the  seclusion  of  his  own 
establishment.  But  Sister  Mildred  is  a  saint,  and 
there  is  no  courage  like  the  courage  of  the  saint. 

They  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  third  floor. 
"  You  are  sure  you  are  not  afraid?  "  whispered 
the  girl.  She  was  white  and  terrified.  "  There 
is  nothing  to  fear,"  answered  the  Sister,  and 
pressed  her  arm. 

The  girl  opened  the  door  with  a  latch-keyr 
The  hall  was  in  darkness.  She  closed  the  door 
quietly,  and  felt  for  the  switch  of  the  electric 
light.  The  place  was  quite  silent.  In  the  dim 
light  from  the  single  lamp  in  the  hall  they  made 
their  way  down  a  corridor,  and  entered  a  room 


206         A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

at  the  end  of  the  passage.  It  was  the  girl's  bed- 
room. 

She  turned  on  the  light,  and  said,  "  I  don't 
think  he  heard  us." 

"  Perhaps  he  is  out." 

"  No.     I  can  feel  that  he  is  here !  " 

"  Let  us  be  quick.  But  there  is  no  need  to  be 
afraid." 

The  girl  began  to  open  wardrobes  and 
drawers.  The  Sister  watched  her,  standing 
between  the  door  and  the  scene  of  these  opera- 
tions. All  the  time  that  she  was  packing  her 
belongings  the  girl  was  shivering  like  a  person 
struck  with  a  chill.  She  spoke  in  nervous 
whispers,  expressing  nothing  but  her  terror  of  the 
man. 

"  Think  of  your  mother's  letter,"  said  the  Sis- 
ter. "  You  ought  to  be  happy.  You  are  begin- 
ning the  new  life." 

"  I  shall  be  happy  when  we  are  outside,"  said 
the  girl. 

The  door  opened.  Sister  Mildred  turned  her 
head.  A  man  stood  there,  filling  the  doorway. 
He  had  one  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat;  be- 
tween the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  he  held  the 
stump  of  a  cigar.  He  regarded  the  Sister  with 
a  frown  which  was  a  menace. 

"  I  am  taking  Eva  away,"  said  the  Sister. 

"  Indeed." 

"  She  wishes  to  live  a  better  life." 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER  207 

He  put  the  cigar  to  his  lips,  and  began  to 
smoke.  The  girl  continued  to  pack.  He  did  not 
look  at  her,  and  she  kept  her  back  to  him. 

"It  has  been  very  close  to-day,"  said  Sister 
Mildred. 

The  man  moved  to  a  chair,  and  sat  down. 
"  We  are  going  to  have  rain,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  think  we  are." 

A  bag  snapped  to,  and  there  was  the  sound 
of  a  strap  being  pulled  through  a  buckle.  The 
man's  income  was  passing  away  before  his 
eyes. 

"London  is  horrible  in  the  autumn,"  he  said 
to  Sister  Mildred. 

"  It  must  be  beautiful  in  the  country." 

"  I  should  like  to  be  at  Brighton." 

The  girl  half-turned,  with  a  bag  in  her  hand. 
The  man  remained  where  he  was;  he  did  not  look 
at  her.  Sister  Mildred  went  to  the  girl,  took  one 
of  the  bags,  and  led  her  towards  the  door. 

"  We  will  go  now,"  she  said  to  the  man,  with- 
out stopping  in  her  walk. 

"  By  all  means,"  he  answered. 

In  the  doorway  Sister  Mildred  turned  her  head, 
and  said  good-bye  to  him. 

He  waited  till  Eva  had  passed  through  the 
doorway.  Then  he  raised  his  head,  and  met  the 
Sister's  eyes.  "  Good-bye,"  he  said,  without 
moving  from  his  chair. 

In  the  rescue-home  they  saw  how  greatly  this 


208         A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

girl  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  her  bully.  Her 
body  was  black  with  his  blows  and  red  with  his 
canings.  "  When  I  came  home  tipsy,  he  would 
flog  me,"  she  told  them ;  "  when  I  came  home 
alone  he  accused  me  of  having  wasted  my  time, 
and  struck  me." 

One  would  have  said  that  she  was  now  in 
heaven.  On  every  side  of  her  were  the  tender- 
ness and  solicitude  of  holy  women;  her  life 
was  ordered  by  a  cheerful  and  invigorating 
routine;  the  atmosphere  she  breathed  was 
wholesome  and  pure;  wherever  she  turned  there 
was  kindness;  instead  of  a  bully,  she  had  good 
women  over  her;  instead  of  the  reckless  en- 
vironment of  the  streets  she  had  the  friendship 
and  encouragement  of  courtesans  who  had  turned 
from  a  like  degradation  and  were  praying  their 
way  to  God.  When  she  thought  of  her  mother 
she  could  reflect,  "  In  a  few  months  I  shall  go 
to  her;  the  past  will  be  like  a  bad  dream." 

But  there  was  one  thing  the  home  could  not 
give  to  her.  And  this  thing  she  desired,  craved, 
and  burned  for,  more  than  everything  else.  It 
was  alcohol.  More  than  God's  forgiveness,  more 
than  reunion  with  her  mother,  more  than  purity, 
more  than  a  new  life,  more  than  the  hope  of 
heaven  after  death,  she  wanted  this  poison  called 
alcohol.  And  in  order  to  satisfy  this  craving, 
she  escaped  from  the  home,  and  went  back  to  the 
streets. 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER  209 

Three  weeks  had  passed  since  she  entered  the 
home;  three  weeks  of  freedom  from  the  bully's 
fists,  three  weeks  of  acquaintance  with  purity, 
three  weeks  of  approach  to  God;  then — driven 
by  unconquerable  mania,  she  went  back  to  the 
vileness  and  the  terror  of  her  life  of  sin,  for  the 
sake  of  drink. 

Sister  Mildred  was  told  of  this  sad  end  to 
her  penitent's  aspiration  after  a  good  life.  She 
looked  for  her  on  the  streets,  but  did  not  see 
her.  She  inquired  about  her,  but  no  tidings 
could  be  heard. 

One  night  a  constable  stopped  her  in  Regent 
Street.  The  inspector  at  Vine  Street  desired  to 
see  her.  Sister  Mildred  went  to  the  police- 
station,  and  found  the  girl  there — drunk  and  hys- 
terical. 

The  police  are  wonderfully  kind  to  these 
women.  They  do  not  charge  them  before  a 
magistrate  if  there  is  the  smallest  opportunity 
of  avoiding  so  great  a  catastrophe.  Severity 
and  rigour  of  the  law  are  reserved  for  the 
procuress  or  for  the  well-known  criminals  who 
masquerade  as  public  women.  For  young  girls 
at  the  beginning  of  a  life  of  vice,  the  police 
of  West  London  have  a  genuine  compassion. 

Eva  told  her  story.  The  bully  had  found 
her  out  and  had  carried  her  off  to  earn  money 
for  him.  She  was  in  his  power  again.  If 
Sister  Mildred  would  only  take  her  to  the  home 


210  A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

once  more,  if  she  would  only  give  her  another 
chance,  never — never  would  she  go  back  to  the 
streets. 

It  was  quite  clear  that  this  girl's  life  would 
be  exposed  to  the  gravest  risks  so  long  as  the 
bully  was  at  large.  Sister  Mildred  explained  the 
matter  to  the  police,  and  a  course  of  action  was 
decided  upon  then  and  there.  The  girl  would  be 
handed  over  to  the  Mission;  the  man  would  be 
arrested. 

A  change  came  over  the  girl  when  she  learned 
that  the  tyrant  of  her  life  had  been  sentenced 
to  six  months'  imprisonment.  She  appeared  to 
regain  the  courage  natural  to  her  years  and 
health;  she  lost  something  of  the  shrinking 
timidity  which  had  hitherto  marked  her  manner. 
The  Sisters  in  the  home  observed  with  hope  and 
encouragement  that  the  girl  manifested  signs  of  a 
resolute  will.  She  expressed  with  emphasis  her 
determination  to  live  the  new  life,  never  again 
to  go  back.  There  was  more  energy  in  the  way 
she  set  about  her  work,  more  thoroughness  in  her 
accomplishment  of  the  tasks  allotted  to  her. 

But  with  dipsomania  there  is  always  a  great 
risk.  The  drunkard  whose  whole  body  is  sodden 
with  alcoholic  poison,  who  cannot  pass  a  day 
without  drinking  to  a  vast  excess,  who  is,  prac- 
tically speaking,  always  in  a  state  of  intoxica- 
tion, does  not  offer  so  hard  a  task  to  the 
physician  as  the  man  suddenly  and  completely 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER         211 

swept  away  at  long  intervals  by  an  overmaster- 
ing passion  for  drink.  This  is  the  true  dipso- 
maniac, and  doctors  have  told  me  that  the  true 
dipsomaniac  is  never  cured.  With  the  drunkard, 
the  will  consents  to  the  madness;  with  the  dip- 
somaniac, the  will  opposes  and  is  swept  aside. 
For  weeks  the  dipsomaniac  is  free  from  tempta- 
tion, feels  no  desire  for  drink,  appears  to  be 
a  person  exercising  the  force  of  a  conscious  will; 
and  then,  suddenly — with  a  rush  like  the  spring 
of  a  tiger,  the  will  is  swept  clean  away,  the  mind 
has  no  force,  and  the  whole  body  is  consumed 
by  a  blind  and  ferocious  passion  for  drink.  At 
such  moments,  I  have  been  told  by  men  of  science, 
there  is  no  power  on  earth  which  can  oppose  this 
madness.     This  is  not  true. 

There  is  a  power,  how  to  name  it  I  do  not 
know,  which  gives  the  dipsomaniac  sufficient 
energy  to  resist  even  these  terrible  moments 
of  insensate  madness.  It  is  not  a  power  which 
produces  miracle,  for  there  is  always  conflict; 
it  is  something  so  wonderful,  so  unknown  by 
physicians,  so  unrecognised  and  undefined  by 
psychical  science,  that  one  may  describe  it  as 
superhuman;  nevertheless,  it  appears  so  lack- 
ing in  mercy,  so  wanting  in  the  warmth  of  saving 
pity,  that  I  dare  not  call  it  divine.  It  comes 
by  prayer  and  aspiration,  but  it  is  not  the  might 
of  God  nor  the  sheltering  love  of  Christ.  Those 
to  whom  it  comes,  go  down  on  their  knees  to 


212  A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

God,  after  the  fierce  conflict,  and  offer  up  a 
fervent  thanksgiving  for  the  mercy  vouchsafed 
to  them;  but  their  bodies  are  wet  with  the 
strife,  their  limbs  are  trembling,  they  are  so 
spent  and  exhausted  that  the  prayer  gasps  from 
their  lips.  I  have  met  men  whose  long  craving 
for  alcohol  has  vanished  instantaneously  at  the 
moment  of  conversion;  they  have  told  me  that 
in  place  of  the  craving  they  were  conscious  from 
that  time  forward  of  a  very  nausea  at  the  thought 
of  drink.  But  I  have  met  others  whose  con- 
version has  left  just  this  single  cell  of  the  brain 
uncleansed;  and  every  now  and  then,  in  the 
midst  of  lives  so  holy,  so  self-sacrificing,  so 
devoted  to  the  love  of  God  that  one  may  liken 
them  to  the  saints,  there  comes  the  agonising  de- 
sire and  the  only  just  resistible  passion  for  the 
spirit  or  the  drug.  It  may  be  that  the  power  to 
resist  comes  from  their  higher  self,  that  larger 
and  subliminal  consciousness  which  functions,  it 
is  hazarded,  on  the  spiritual  plane;  but  the  blind 
man  invited  to  accuse  Christ  of  sin,  replied, 
"  Whether  he  be  a  sinner  or  no,  I  know  not :  one 
thing  I  know,  that,  whereas  I  was  blind,  now 
I  see  " — and  these  people,  not  troubling  to  dis- 
cover and  to  define  their  means  of  safety,  assure 
one  that  they  pray  and  that  the  answer  comes  by 
prayer — one  thing  they  know,  that,  whereas  they 
were  torn  and  rent  by  a  very  demon,  now  they 
are  calm  with  the  peace  of  God. 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER  213 

The  risk  in  the  case  of  this  particular  girl 
was  considerable.  She  would  go  from  the  home 
into  domestic  service;  it  might  be  a  part  of 
her  duties  to  handle  the  decanters  and  wine- 
bottles  of  her  employers;  the  temptation  would 
be  thrust  upon  her;  to  resist  it  would  be  almost 
impossible.  For  the  life  of  the  streets  not  only 
destroys  the  purity  of  the  body,  it  moulders 
and  rots  the  force  of  the  will.  Sometimes  it 
is  a  matter  of  years  before  the  will  is  restored; 
sometimes  it  is  irrecoverable.  A  girl  may  be 
saved  from  the  dreadful  life,  may  become 
perfectly  virtuous  and  perfectly  pure,  and  yet 
remain  to  the  end  of  her  days  mentally  weak, 
mentally  deficient;  and  this  is  almost  invariable 
where  the  girl  has  long  been  a  victim  of  alcohol. 
The  noblest  chords  of  the  physical  organism 
are  destroyed,  and  the  spirit  is  powerless  to  ex- 
press itself. 

So  the  good  Sisters  of  the  Mission  cast  about 
in  their  minds  as  to  what  they  could  do  for 
this  threatened  soul.  While  they  drew  her 
nearer  and  nearer  into  the  circle  of  religion, 
while  they  gradually  led  her  to  feel  in  the  idea 
of  God  all  that  her  highest  nature  could  imagine 
or  desire,  while  they  gently  and  sweetly  pre- 
sented at  the  beatings  of  her  heart  the  thought 
of  Christ  as  One  Who  had  followed  her  in  all 
her  ways,  pleading  and  waiting,  and  was  now 
so  happy  in  her  penitence,  so  merciful  in  His 


214  A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

forgiveness — and  while,  at  the  same  time,  they 
encouraged  her  to  take  a  pride  in  her  work,  to 
make  all  her  tasks  a  sacrament  of  her  gratitude 
to  God,  these  good  women  were  looking  out  into 
the  seething  world  outside,  so  full  of  peril  for 
this  rescued  soul,  and  seeking  for  her  a  place  of 
security. 

One  day  Sister  Mildred  came  to  the  girl  and 
talked  to  her  about  her  mother,  her  life  in  the 
country,  the  days  of  her  girlhood.  Was  there 
no  one,  in  those  days,  for  whom  she  had  felt 
love  and  who  had  professed  love  for  her?  The 
lovers  had  been  many,  but  light;  of  philan- 
dering she  had  had  the  ordinary  experience 
of  a  pretty  and  attractive  girl,  in  common- 
place surroundings;  of  real  love — no,  she  knew 
nothing. 

"  No  man,  then,  has  really  ever  asked  you  to 
marry  him?  " 

Oh,  yes." 

But  I  thought  you  said- 


ft 

(( 


Not  in  those  days,  not  in  the  country." 
When  you  were  in  a  shop?  " 
"No;  afterwards." 

Do  you  mean- 


er T\~ >> 


"  Yes ;  on  the  streets.  I  met  him  one  night, 
and  spoke  to  him.  He  was  shocked  when  he 
found  out  why  I  had  spoken  to  him.  He  would 
not  go  with  me,  but  we  walked  together.  He 
asked  me  to  give  up  the  life.     I  said  I  couldn't. 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER  215 

He  gave  me  some  money,  and  went  away. 
After  that  I  saw  him  several  times.  He  used 
to  look  out  for  me.  If  he  didn't  see  me,  he 
would  ask  the  others  where  I  was.  They  called 
him  my  follower.  He  used  to  wait  for  me  out- 
side public-houses,  and  restaurants,  and  at 
street-corners.  He  was  always  begging  me  to 
give  up  the  life " 

"What  kind  of  man?" 

"  He  has  been  in  the  Navy.  Now  he's  a  hail- 
porter  in  one  of  the  clubs." 

"Yes?" 

"One  day  he  asked  me  to  marry  him.  It 
didn't  surprise  me,  because  I  knew  he  was  fond 
of  me;  but  I  pretended  to  laugh  at  the  thought 
— a  decent  man  marrying  a  girl  on  the  streets! 
He  said  that  he  would  give  me  a  comfortable 
home,  that  he  wouldn't  think  about  the  past,  and 
that  he  cared  for  me  more  than  my  life  could 
make  him  not  care.  He  was  in  earnest.  He  al- 
most made  me  afraid.  I  was  pleased  to  think  he 
loved  me,  but  it  seemed  impossible  that  I  should 
ever  be  a  decent  woman." 

"But  now?" 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  If  he  should  ask  you  now  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  seen  him  for  a  long  time." 

"  He  must  be  a  good  man." 

"  Yes." 

"It  would  be  a  great  thing  to  deserve  the 


216         A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

love  of  such  a  man.  There's  an  ambition  for 
you!  Win  his  love  again.  Become  his  wife. 
Make  a  home  for  him.  Look  forward  to  the  day 
when  perhaps  you  will  be  the  mother  of  his  chil- 
dren." 

"  I  feel  more  unworthy  now  than  I  did  in  the 
old  days." 

"  He  will  not  think  so." 

This  discovery  was  a  great  consolation  to  the 
Sisterhood.  It  promised  security  for  the  child, 
who  was  so  sweet  and  so  feeble,  so  pretty  and 
so  weak,  so  innocent  and  gentle  in  appearance, 
but  with  so  dangerous  a  poison  in  her  veins.  It 
was  decided  that  Sister  Mildred  should  see  the 
man,  tell  him  the  story  of  Eva  as  she  knew  it, 
warn  him  of  the  danger  that  they  feared,  and  ask 
him  if  he  would  take  the  risk.  The  girl  told  his 
name  and  the  club  at  which  he  served.  Sister 
Mildred  wrote  to  him,  and  the  next  day  he  came 
to  see  her. 

He  was  a  man  who  carried  in  his  face  the  rec- 
ommendation of  a  noble  mind.  He  advertised 
the  benefits  of  Discipline.  There  was  something 
heroic  and  dignified  in  his  manner,  in  the 
carriage  of  his  head,  in  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
in  the  honesty  of  his  words.  It  was  easy  to 
tell  him  the  whole  story,  not  so  easy  to  wish 
that  he  should  take  so  great  a  risk. 

He  said  in  straightforward  words  that  he  loved 
this  girl.     "  Her  life  never  seemed  to  make  any 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER  217 

difference  to  my  love  for  her,"  he  explained.  "  I 
don't  know  how  I  have  done  it,  but  I  have  loved 
her  apart  from  what  she  was  doing.  When  I  was 
with  her  I  forgot  all  about  it;  but  when  I  left 
her  I  remembered,  and  it  hurt  me.  I  couldn't 
bear  to  think  of  her  walking  the  street.  God 
knows  how  that  worried  me.  It  seemed  to  get 
between  me  and  the  sun.  Many  a  time  I  thought 
I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  It  was  worse 
than  a  blow  in  the  face ;  it  was  like  a  knife  in  the 
heart." 

Sister  Mildred  spoke  of  the  change  in  Eva's 
disposition,  her  genuine  awakening  to  religion, 
her  cleansed  heart  and  purified  mind.  Then 
she  asked,  "Are  you  still  willing  to  marry 
her?" 

"  You  needn't  ask  me  that,"  said  the  lover. 

The  next  step  was  more  difficult.  The  man 
had  to  be  warned  of  the  danger.  Eva  would  love 
him  to  the  end  of  her  days,  she  would  be  a  true 
wife  and  a  virtuous  woman,  but  there  was  a  risk 
of  another  temptation.  Nothing  was  hidden, 
nothing  minimised.  The  whole  dreadful  hazard 
was  made  plain.  One  day  the  man  might  return 
to  his  home  to  find  his  wife  senseless  and  odious 
with  drink.  He  might  forgive,  might  plead, 
might  make  a  new  start,  might  live  for  months 
in  the  belief  that  restoration  had  come;  and  then, 
once  more  the  terrible  disillusion,  the  hateful 
wreck  of  hope,  the  disgust  of  despair. 


218  A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

He  listened  attentively.  When  the  Sister  had 
made  an  end,  he  sat  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence,  reflecting. 

At  last  he  said,  "  There's  one  thing  I  can  see. 
We  must  go  clean  away.  London  can  never  be 
any  good  to  her." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  take  her  away  ? ' 

"  Yes." 

"  That  would  mean  giving  up  your  work  ?  ' 

"  I'm  not  afraid.  Out  in  Canada,  out  in 
Australia — there's  always  room  for  a  decent  man. 
We  could  make  a  fresh  start.  No  one  would 
know  about  her.  She'd  see  nothing  to  remind 
her  of  the  past,  it  would  be  a  new  world  for 
her." 

"  You  must  think  it  over  very  seriously  before 

you  act." 

"  I've  done  that.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Sis- 
ter. It's  plain  sailing  now;  I  can  see  ahead. 
Look  here,  I'll  take  this  girl  to  church  and  I'll 
marry  her,  with  you  at  her  side.  In  my  pocket 
there  will  be  my  passage  to  Australia,  and  at 
the  church  door  I'll  say  good-bye  to  her.  I'll 
leave  her  in  your  hands,  as  my  wife;  and  I'll 
go  straight  off  to  the  South.  When  I've  got 
work,  when  I've  made  a  home,  and  all's  comfort- 
able and  easy  for  her,  I'll  write  and  send  the 
money  for  her  journey,  and  she  shall  come  out 
to  me.  That's  how  I  see  the  matter;  that's  my 
way  of  settling  the  difficulty.     Will  you  agree?  ' 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER  219 

It  was  settled  in  this  way. 

The  marriage  was  surely  one  of  the  noblest 
ever  sanctified  in  a  London  church.  The  man 
had  given  up  the  certainty  of  daily  bread;  he 
was  going  to  a  country  where  he  had  neither 
friend  nor  acquaintance;  he  was  doing  this  to 
save  a  woman  whom,  a  few  months  before,  he 
might  have  bought  for  a  sovereign ;  and,  having 
married  her,  having  given  her  the  security  and 
protection  of  his  good  name,  he  was  leaving  her 
at  the  door  of  the  church,  to  face  the  world  alone, 
to  make  his  way  single-handed,  to  prepare  a  home 
for  her. 

That  parting  at  the  church  door  between  the 
emigrant  lover  and  the  penitent  Magdalen  is 
ineffaceably  impressed  upon  Sister  Mildred's 
memory.  She  describes  the  man,  with  a 
ring  in  her  voice,  as  "  splendid,"  and  her  eyes 
kindle  as  she  speaks  of  the  chivalrous  tender- 
ness of  his  farewell  to  the  young  wife,  and 
the  quiet  confidence  with  which  he  walked 
away  alone,  on  his  far  journey  to  a  distant 
country. 

This  devotion  of  the  man,  so  unthinkable  to 
many,  so  easy  to  explain  by  those  conscious  of 
superior  sensibility,  made  a  resistless  appeal  to 
the  soul  of  the  girl.  She  was  humbled,  and  yet 
exalted.  She  felt  herself  unworthy,  and  yet 
felt  herself  spurred  to  merit  so  great  a  blessing. 
In  a  word,  the  nobility  of  the  man  brought  her 


220  A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

out  of  the  suburbs  of  the  commonplace  and  set 
her  feet  in  the  city  of  the  soul.  She  was  in  that 
region  where  the  spirit  loses  the  sense  of  the 
trivial  and  is  conscious  of  grandeur.  To  be  con- 
scious of  grandeur  is  to  be  conscious  of  God.  She 
breathed  the  sublime  air,  saw  the  brightness  of 
eternity,  felt  in  her  soul  "  the  sacred  passion  of 
the  second  life."  No  longer  for  her  was  ex- 
istence a  vulgar  scramble  after  transitory 
pleasure. 

To  be  worthy  of  the  man  who  loved  her  it  was 
necessary  that  she  should  become  her  highest. 
To  become  her  highest  it  was  necessary  for  her 
to  be  spiritual.  To  be  spiritual  it  was  necessary 
to  pray. 

Into  her  heart,  which  had  suffered  so  greatly 
and  which  had  sought  so  disastrously  to  gratify 
the  lusts  of  the  flesh,  there  stole  gradually 
and  sweetly  the  cleansing  tide  of  celestial 
love.  Afraid  to  trust  herself,  conscious  that 
she  herself  must  always  be  uunworthy,  she 
clung  to  the  idea  of  a  Saviour,  bowed  herself 
at  the  feet  of  infinite  compassion,  surrendered 
herself  into  the  care  of  everlasting  strength. 
She  made  her  life  a  prayer,  lived  with  the 
thought  of  Christ  in  her  heart,  did  everything  in 
her  day's  work  as  a  sacrament  of  the  spirit. 
And  while  this  growth  in  grace  developed  and 
transformed  her  character,  the  health  of  her  body 
responded  to  healthy  toil,  to  regular  habits,  to 


A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER  221 

simple  living  and  to  noble  thoughts.  The  will 
which  had  been  so  pliant,  became  strengthened. 
The  lassitude  which  had  so  often  assailed  her, 
passed  away.  She  was  quick,  energetic,  bright- 
minded,  and  happy-hearted. 

The  temptation  to  drink  came  to  her,  but 
without  its  old  force.  She  was  able  to  combat 
the  thought ;  and  her  suffering,  while  the  passion 
lasted,  was  not  very  great.  She  was  restless, 
fretted,  distracted;  but  not  torn.  She  came  out 
from  these  strange  psychical  storms  with  serenity 
and  quiet  faith. 

Not  many  weeks  after  his  arrival  in  Australia 
the  husband  wrote  and  asked  her  to  join  him. 
He  had  found  work,  he  had  got  a  home  for  her, 
he  could  promise  her  a  cheerful  existence  and 
the  friendship  of  kind  people.  He  sent  an  ample 
remittance  for  her  expenses. 

She  went  to  see  the  mother,  whose  letter 
had  first  touched  her  heart  to  seek  repentance, 
and  after  a  brief  visit  and  affectionate  fare- 
wells, left  England  to  join  her  husband.  Some 
years  have  passed  since  her  departure,  and  the 
only  letters  that  the  Mission  receives  from  hus- 
band and  wife  tell  of  increasing  prosperity  and 
an  ever-deepening  happiness  of  heart  and  soul. 
This  girl,  who  once  walked  the  London  streets, 
who  was  a  dipsomaniac,  and  the  beaten  slave  of 
a  bully,  is  now  the  virtuous  wife  of  a  good  man, 
the  happy  mother  of  healthy  children,  and  a  soul 


222  A  GIRL  AND  HER  LOVER 

consecrated  to  the  service  of  humanity.  Is  there 
any  other  power  on  the  earth  which  could  have 
done  this  mighty  thing,  except  that  power  which 
works  by  the  need  of  the  fallen  soul  for  a  pure 
Christ?  ' 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

WHILE  I  was  making  myself  acquainted 
with  the  work  of  the  West  London 
Mission  I  came  across  a  man  so  much 
out  of  the  common  and  with  so  original  a  view 
of  the  religious  life,  that  I  turned  aside  from  my 
researches  to  cultivate  his  sympathy  and  learn  his 
story. 

His  attitude  towards  the  Mission  was  one  of 
relentless  criticism.  He  worked  with  it  because 
it  appeared  to  him  about  the  best  religious  or- 
ganisation of  its  kind,  but  he  refused  to  admit 
for  a  moment  that  it  represented  the  idea  of 
Christ.  This  amazing  judgment  was  based  upon 
his  conception  of  charity.  The  injunction  "  Give 
to  him  that  asketh  thee,  and  from  him  that  would 
borrow  of  thee  turn  not  thou  away,"  meant  for 
my  acquaintance  almost  the  fundamental  doctrine 
of  Christianity.  He  held  that  no  one  who 
refused  a  beggar's  plea  for  assistance,  or  who 
spent  a  shilling  on  luxury  while  his  neighbour 
was  in  need,  could  by  any  stretch  of  the 
imagination  be  called  a  follower  of  Christ.  As 
the  West  London  Mission  makes  it  a  principle 
of  its  action  not  to  encourage  the  loafer,  and 

223 


224        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

concentrates  all  its  energy  upon  declaring  only 
the  spiritual  gospel  of  Christ — keeping  that  evan- 
gelical side  of  religion  entirely  free  from  the 
possible  corruption  of  almsgiving — my  acquaint- 
ance was  not  only  in  constant  antagonism  with 
the  society,  but  he  was  continually  getting  into 
difficulties  with  the  authorities.  Here  is  an  in- 
stance in  point : — 

"  I  was  listening  one  night, "  he  told  me,  "  to 
an  open-air  service  of  the  Mission,  when  a  work- 
man came  up  to  me  and  asked  if  I  would  give 
him  a  shilling.  He  appeared  to  be  in  want, 
and  it  was  not  for  me  to  judge  him.  I  gave 
him  the  money.  On  another  occasion,  as  I 
was  walking  away  from  the  service,  he  followed 
me  and  begged  for  more  assistance.  He  told 
a  pitiful  story,  probably  false,  and  said  that  if  he 
could  get  his  tools  out  of  pawn  he  might  really 
hope  for  a  decent  job  in  the  following  week.  I 
gave  him  some  money,  and  advised  him  to  go 
and  see  one  of  the  Sisters  of  the  Mission  at  head- 
quarters. It  appears  that  he  went  there;  and 
that  after  he  had  left  the  building,  one  of  the 
Sisters,  whose  bag  had  been  lying  on  the  table 
in  the  room  where  he  had  been  sitting  alone, 
missed  her  purse.  It  contained  something  over 
a  pound  or  two.  Whether  the  man  stole  the 
purse  or  not,  I  don't  know,  I  can't  say;  but 
when  I  arrived  at  the  house  I  found  that  every- 
body had  definitely  decided  upon  his  guilt.     I 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        225 

pointed  out  that  the  evidence  against  him  was 
by  no  means  conclusive,  but,  of  course,  without 
effect.  '  I  have  told  the  police,'  said  the  Sister 
whose  purse  was  missing,  '  and  I  hope  the  man 
will  be  caught.'  '  What ! '  I  said,  *  you  want 
to  put  him  in  prison  ?  '  '  He  is  a  thief ! '  said 
the  Sister.  'But  are  you  not  a  Christian?'  I 
asked.  She  could  not  see — this  is  what  I  com- 
plain about — that  however  guilty  and  abominable 
the  man  might  be,  it  was  an  act  clean  contrary 
to  religion,  an  act  absolutely  opposed  to  religion, 
to  seek  to  punish  him.  But  it  is  the  same 
everywhere.  You  find  a  great  deal  of  morality, 
a  great  deal  of  routine  charity  and  mechanical 
religion,  but  the  Spirit  of  Christ  is  almost  totally 
unknown." 

On  the  subject  of  conversion  he  had  his  own 
particular  view.  The  narratives  in  Professor 
James's  wonderful  book  moved  him  to  no 
admiration.  "  The  best  model  for  a  story  of 
conversion,"  he  said,  "  is  to  be  found  in  Matthew, 
nine,  nine — He  saith  unto  him,  Follow  Me.  And 
he  arose,  and  followed  Him." 

His  mind,  I  found,  was  overcharged  with  a 
vast  and  immovable  depression.  He  saw  Chris- 
tianity very  vividly  and  very  closely  as  something 
which  a  child  might  understand;  and  he  saw 
those  who  represent  Christianity  making  it 
something  so  difficult  and  equivocal  that  the 
world  abandoned  all  effort  to  understand  it.     He 


226        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

saw  the  idea  of  Christ  as  something  which  could 
quite  easily  change  the  whole  face  of  existence, 
and  he  saw  the  Church  entangling  this  pure  and 
lovely  thing  with  the  confusions  and  distortions 
of  a  godless  materialism.  His  ideal  of  a  living 
brotherhood — each  man  really  and  truly  regard- 
ing his  neighbour  with  greater  love  than  himself, 
each  nation  really  and  truly  living  for  the  total 
good  of  humanity,  and  all  the  world  really  and 
truly  seeking  sweetness,  love,  mercy,  and  sim- 
plicity, instead  of  ostentation,  wealth,  self-asser- 
tion, and  self-aggrandisement — this  ideal  which 
he  held  to  be  the  very  elements  and  therefore 
the  root  essentials  of  Christianity,  nowhere  could 
he  see  visible  on  the  earth.  It  was  because  he 
felt  with  all  the  force  of  his  soul  the  religion  of 
Christ  to  be  a  practical  reality,  the  one  means 
of  exalting  life  and  rendering  humanity  divine; 
and  because  he  saw  this  one  hope  of  men's 
salvation  treated  for  the  most  part  as  a  mere 
visionary's  counsel  of  perfection,  a  theme  for 
church  pulpits,  but  not  for  practice  in  streets 
and  homes  and  parliaments,  that  he  had  a  stern 
judgment  for  religious  organisations  and  felt 
himself  to  be  solitary,  powerless,  and  miserably 
ineffectual. 

He  was  a  man  of  real  culture  and  some  dis- 
tinction. His  life  had  been  full  of  events.  For 
many  years  he  had  travelled  in  the  East  as 
special  correspondent  for  one  of  the  chief  news- 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        227 

papers  of  London;  he  had  a  knowledge  of  the 
customs  and  morals  of  nations  which  was  as 
intimate  and  well-ordered  as  his  knowledge  of 
their  foreign  policies;  he  had  a  sense  of  humour 
which  was  pleasant  and  refined,  if  not  keen  and 
incisive;  in  spite  of  an  almost  judicial  gravity 
and  a  certain  ponderous  turgidity  of  mind  which 
was  sometimes  within  touch  of  aggravation,  he 
gave  one  an  impression  of  real  power  and  solid 
worth.  It  was  not  long  before  one  discovered 
that  he  had  suffered  very  greatly,  and  perceived 
that  he  had  experienced  some  unique  manifesta- 
tion of  the  religious  spirit.  The  man  was 
original,  with  a  sense  of  mystery  behind  the 
quiet,  almost  stagnant  self-possession  of  his 
manner. 

"  There  is  a  modesty  of  the  soul,  as  well  as 
of  the  body,"  says  Professor  Granger,1  "  through 
which  high-spirited  persons  usually  shrink  from 
talking  about  the  principles  of  honour  upon 
which  they  act.  This  is  why  the  intrusion  even 
of  well-meaning  persons  in  the  things  of  the 
spirit  is  so  often  bitterly  resented.  The  religious 
life,  in  its  private  aspect,  is  indeed  a  mystery 
and  forbids  speech,  and  when  this  reticence  is 
transgressed  the  soul  seems  to  be  wounded. 
Dale,  speaking  of  hypnotic  experiments,  says: 
1 1  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  when  a 
man  submits  himself  to  experiment,  he  surrenders 

x  The  Soul  of  a  Christian.     (Methuen.) 


228        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

for  the  time  the  integrity  of  his  self-command, 
allows  a  break  to  be  made  in  the  fences  which 
protect  his  personality,  runs  grave  risk  of  mad- 
ness or  worse.  If  I  may  put  it  so,  there  seems 
to  me  to  be  a  sacrifice  of  the  chastity  of  our 
inner  personal  life  in  these  inquiries,  which  may 
have  results  on  the  higher  nature  analogous  to 
those  which  follow  the  physical  offence  and  still 
more  ruinous.'  " 

In  a  certain  sense,  with  real  limitations,  this 
is  true.  There  is,  indeed,  a  holy  of  holies  in  each 
man's  soul  which  must  be  guarded  against  all 
human  approach.  To  seek  to  enter  there  is  a 
profanation.  It  belongs  to  God.  But  there  is 
danger  of  a  most  pernicious  egoism  in  the 
reticence  which  locks  away  from  the  benefit  of 
other  men  a  unique  or  miraculous  spiritual 
experience.  One  has  only  to  think  what  would 
have  happened  to  the  character  and  manhood  of 
St.  Paul  if  he  had  regarded  his  conversion  as  a 
thing  sole  and  particular  to  himself,  or  of  St. 
Augustine,  or  of  St.  Teresa,  to  realise  that  this 
natural  modesty  of  the  soul  may  become  a 
menace  to  the  highest  expression  of  the  spiritual 
life.  It  is  necessary,  sometimes,  to  bear  the 
wounding  pain  and  tearing  sharpness  of  a 
spiritual  disclosure;  to  forget  one's  self,  to 
realise  one's  individual  insignificance,  and  to  give 
with  both  hands  to  the  world  what  has  been 
given  in  secret  and  with  holy  mystery  to  one's 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        229 

self.  But  this  can  only  be  understood  by  the 
saints,  and  only  by  saints  can  the  sacrifice  be  made 
without  vanity  and  without  creating  disgust. 

The  man  of  whom  I  am  writing  has  all  the 
shrinking  and  timidity  of  soul  which  characterise 
a  refined  nature.  It  was  therefore  with  the 
greatest  unwillingness  that  he  contemplated  a 
disclosure  of  the  strange  event  in  his  life  which 
led  ultimately  to  his  conversion.  When  he  per- 
ceived that  such  a  narration  might  be  of  service 
to  the  cause  of  Christianity  and  helpful  to 
those  of  his  fellow-men  struggling  to  discover 
reality  in  religion,  he  wavered  in  his  refusal 
to  discuss  the  matter,  and  after  some  further 
persuasion  finally  surrendered  to  the  idea,  but 
only  upon  conditions  which  will  be  faithfully 
observed  in  the  following  pages.  I  can  give 
neither  the  name  of  the  man,  nor  mention  the 
scene  of  his  illumination,  and  the  story  must 
suffer  from  a  certain  reserve  as  to  details  which 
honour  obliges  me  to  respect.  Nevertheless,  I 
think  the  reader  will  be  interested  and  genuinely 
moved  by  the  story,  and,  even  as  it  stands,  I 
venture  to  regard  it  as  a  real  and  valuable 
contribution  to  the  literature  of  religious  experi- 
ence. 

It  was  during  his  sojourn  in  the  East  that 
the  miracle  occurred.  He  had  relinquished  for 
the  time  being  his  service  as  special  corre- 
spondent to  an  English  newspaper,  and  kad  set 


230        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

up  a  local  journal  of  his  own  in  a  treaty  port  of 
evil    reputation.     Impending    war    had   brought 
into   this   Mongolian   town  the   offscourings   of 
the  nations,  and  troops  from  nearly  all  the  coun- 
tries of  the  world.     Vice  of  the  most  hideous 
kind,  which  for  long  had  struck  deep  its  roots 
into  this  filthy  soil,  now  flourished  with  the  most 
open  and  unashamed  effrontery.     The  troops  of 
Christendom  thickened  the  scum  of  Asian  de- 
pravity.    The  place  swarmed  with  iniquity.     Life 
was  worse  than  a  bacchanal  rout,  infinitely  more 
degraded    than    Rabelaisian    gluttony;    the    air 
was  vile  with  a  corruption  of  men's  souls,  the 
devilries  of  hell  smoked  in  the  eye  of  heaven, 
you    could    almost    smell    the    rot    of   decaying 
spirits.     In      this      abominable      and      mephitic 
atmosphere,    the    man    of    whom    I    tell,    an 
educated,  healthy,  and  tolerant  Englishman,  lived 
a  life  that  was  fairly  decent,  fairly  honourable, 
fairly   pure.     He   had   the   work  of   his   news- 
paper,  which   included   some   kind   of   superin- 
tendence of  the  printing-machines,  to  keep  him 
employed  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day;  he 
was  a  volunteer  and  took  his  part  in  the  drills; 
and  he  was  profoundly  interested,  as  a  student 
of  world  politics,   in  the   rush  and  turmoil  of 
events   which   every   hour   were    shaping   more 
certainly   and   more  hopelessly    for   a   war   the 
end    of    which    no    man    could    forecast.     His 
leisure  was  spent  in  restaurants  and  cafes,  he 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        231 

mingled  with  the  cosmopolitan  mob,  knew  very 
well  what  was  taking  place  around  him,  amused 
himself  as  the  mood  inclined  him,  did  not 
descend  to  the  abyss  of  perdition  but  took  his 
pleasure,  like  a  man  of  the  world,  without  the 
smallest  interruption  from  his  conscience. 

By  keeping  back  certain  important  news, 
which  might  have  had  a  disastrous  effect  upon 
events,  he  earned  the  gratitude  and  won  the 
friendship  of  the  General  commanding  the 
British  troops.  His  paper  began  to  be  regarded 
with  respect,  and  his  position  in  the  town 
gradually  assumed  the  character  of  importance. 
But  social  eminence  was  no  restraint  on  the 
lowest  of  passions  in  this  particular  treaty  port, 
and  he  was  perfectly  free  to  pursue  whatever 
course  he  chose  without  fear  of  scandal  or 
financial  loss.  Therefore,  while  his  position  was 
steadily  improving  and  his  interest  in  his  paper 
was  increasing,  he  lived  as  he  had  lived  hitherto, 
gave  no  thought  to  appearances,  cared  nothing 
for  morals,  and  as  for  religion  of  any  kind,  he 
gave  it  no  thought  at  all. 

Imperceptibly  there  came  into  his  mind  a 
sense  of  uneasiness,  a  feeling  of  unrest, 
a  gradual  conviction  of  dissatisfaction.  He 
cannot  tell  when  this  change  began  to  manifest 
in  his  soul.  It  was  there,  potent  and  unex- 
pungeable,  when  he  came  to  contemplate  a  cer- 
tain act  which  would  have  been  unpardonable. 


232        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

Before  that  act,  in  face  of  that  terrible  decision, 
the  immemorial  conflict  of  good  and  evil  was 
a  reality  in  his  nature.  No  longer  indifferent 
to  conduct,  he  felt  the  tug  of  his  higher  nature 
and  heard  the  judgment  of  conscience.  He  had 
become  a  moral  being. 

"  I  need  not  particularise  my  offences,"  he 
says;  "there  were  very  few  things  that  could 
not  be  condoned  or  tolerated  in  our  port,  at 
least  if  one  took  care  to  be  popular  and  good- 
tempered  and  on  the  right  side  of  the  more 
influential  persons.  But  now,  the  course  I  con- 
templated was  one  that  could  not  have  been 
overlooked. " 

As  he  contemplated  this  act,  weighing  the 
consequences  and  fencing  with  his  higher  nature, 
there  came  to  him  the  knowledge  that  whether 
this  particular  course  was  pursued  or  abandoned, 
the  flesh  of  his  character  was  spotted  with  sin 
and  the  blood  of  his  spirit  flowing  with  the 
contagion  of  iniquity.  He  saw  and  regarded 
himself  as  morally  diseased.  Contemplation  of 
a  single  act  had  brought  to  his  mind  an  illumina- 
tion which  lit  up  for  him  the  darkest  recesses 
of  his  soul  and  laid  bare  for  his  gaze  the  cor- 
ruption of  his  whole  nature.  He  felt  himself  to 
be  hideous.  Before  the  mirror  of  self-examina- 
tion he  stood  and  saw  himself  repugnant  and  vile. 
Not  at  this  or  that  act  did  he  sicken,  not  for 
this  or  that  treacherous  inclination  did  he  feel 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        233 

remorse;  but  for  the  pollution  and  rottenness  of 
his  whole  soul  he  was  filled  with  an  almost  in- 
sufferable abhorrence. 

"  I  went,"  he  says,  "  to  the  armoury  where 
the  rifles  were  kept  of  those  who  practised  with 
them,  and  brought  away  my  own  rifle,  No.  60, 
as  permitted,  for  we  were  expected  to  take  out 
our  rifles  occasionally  and  practise  sighting,  &c, 
without  the  use  of  ammunition.  The  order  was 
that  no  ammunition  was  to  be  taken  out  without 
permission.  But  I  took  one  ball  cartridge,  of 
the  Mark  IV.  or  Dum-dum  kind,  flat-nosed  and 
warranted  to  act  decisively.  I  lived  in  a  little 
room  at  the  top  of  a  high  building,  as  my  wife 
and  family  were  at  home  and  I  had  given  up 
my  house  in  their  absence;  and  I  placed  the 
rifle  and  the  ball  cartridge  at  one  side  of  the 
room  near  the  window,  where  I  could  see  them, 
and  took  my  meals  at  the  table  facing  them, 
and  sat  opposite  them  day  by  day  about  a  month, 
practising  sometimes  with  my  toe  on  the  trigger 
but  without  the  cartridge,  and  with  the  muzzle 
of  the  rifle  in  my  mouth,  until  practice  brought 
efficiency.  There  was  nothing  nervous  or  excit- 
able about  this  procedure,  and  it  would  be  wrong 
to  suggest  that  suicide  was  in  contemplation  ex- 
cept as  a  remotely  possible  issue.  It  certainly  was 
in  mind  as  a  possibility,  but  only  under  compul- 
sion. " 

During  this  time  he  began  to  take  stock  of 


234        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

himself.  He  became  the  doctor  of  his  own  soul, 
and  studied  that  diseased  and  dying  entity  with 
the  dispassion  and  curiosity  of  science.  He  felt 
the  pulse  of  his  moral  nature  and  kept  a  chart 
of  his  soul's  temperature. 

"Of  sins  actually  committed,',  he  narrates,  "  I 
kept  a  register,  not  naming  them  but  making 
a  tick  for  each  one  on  the  wall  with  a  pencil, 
and  the  date,  so  that  I  could  see  at  what  date 
these  things  were  more  numerous,  and  so  getting 
gradually  to  reduce  them.  The  building  where 
I  lived  had  a  flat  roof,  and  as  it  was  now 
summer,  with  high  temperatures  reaching  to 
ioo°  and  over,  I  used  to  sleep  on  the  roof, 
with  no  covering  overhead,  for  the  sake  of  the 
coolness  and  the  light  breezes.  The  pencil- 
marks  were  made  on  the  lead  sheeting  of  the 
roof:  when,  occasionally,  rain  came,  it  washed 
off  all  the  marks,  and  a  fresh  lot  began.  No 
one,  of  course,  knew  of  these  matters,  as  I  kept 
the  door  locked  that  led  to  the  roof,  and  paid 
special  rent  for  the  roof,  at  my  own  wish,  so 
that  no  one  else  among  the  other  tenants  of  the 
building  should  claim  access  to  it.  My  reputa- 
tion in  the  town  was  as  good  as  the  average, 
above  reproach  as  regards  ordinary  require- 
ments; at  the  worst  I  believe  I  may  have  been 
credited  with  a  leaning  towards  what  may  be 
called  smart  practice,  not  dishonesty,  but  a 
straining   after  one's   own   advantage,   in  busi- 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        235 

ness.  But  of  complete  rottenness  of  heart 
I  became  convinced,  the  more  so  as  no  one 
else  could  possibly  see  it.  If  I  could  have 
conveniently  died  it  would  have  been  a  great 
relief." 

Presently  he  was  aware  of  his  own  helpless- 
ness, and  the  need  of  a  Power  not  himself.  He 
says : — 

"  Although  I  did  not  believe  in  prayer,  not 
supposing  that  an  Almighty,  if  any,  would  alter 
the  established  order  of  the  universe  at  the 
request  of  one  benighted  individual,  nevertheless 
I  was  compelled  to  pray,  and  as  it  was  useless 
to  pray  to  a  Supreme  Being  who  could  not  be 
reached,  or  seen,  or  understood  by  a  finite  being, 
therefore  I  knelt  down,  sometimes  on  the  roof, 
above  the  town  and  unseen  by  it,  sometimes 
on  the  open  plain,  a  few  miles  out  of  the  town. 
I  knelt  down  before  a  particular  star,  which 
at  this  time  of  the  year  rose  in  the  west  with 
special  brilliancy.  I  prayed  to  that,  well  know- 
ing that  it  was  nothing  but  a  star  and  could 
not  be  a  god,  or  a  sentient  being  of  any  sort; 
but  feeling  at  any  rate  that  it  was  something 
outside  this  world.  The  constellation  of  Orion 
also  became  very  attractive  because  it  indicated 
a  continuity  of  design  and  purpose  extending 
from  past  infinity  of  time  to  our  own  visible 
time  and  self,  and  surpassing  anything  on  earth 
— indicating,  in  fact,  the  existence  of  laws  or  of 


286        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

something  to  which  the  earth  and  all  in  it  must 
give  submission.  So  I  spent  the  nights,  sleep- 
ing under  the  stars,  high  above  the  town, 
and  this  gave  me  some  peace;  and  in  the 
evenings  I  watched  the  glory  of  the  setting 
suns." 

In  this  way  the  religious  idea  began  to  take 
form  and  shape  in  his  mind,  but  vaguely,  with 
indeterminate  outline  and  an  almost  mocking 
elusiveness.  He  was  haunted  by  the  idea  of 
religion,  rather  than  conscious  of  religion  itself. 
Nevertheless  this  haunting  was  sufficiently  in- 
sistent to  make  him  anxious  about  the  possibility 
of  its  reality.  He  considered  the  idea;  and 
while  he  was  keeping  the  chart  of  his  sins  and 
praying  to  a  star,  unconsciously  as  the  eidolon 
of  that  Power  not  ourselves  which  makes  for 
righteousness,  he  decided  to  make  himself  better 
acquainted  with  the  notions  of  the  Christian 
religion.  One  Sunday  he  attended  service  at 
the  Nonconformist  church.  He  went  late  on 
purpose,  "  so  that  I  should  not  be  bothered  with 
formularies  and  creeds  and  so  on,"  and  listened 
to  a  sermon  which  made  little  or  no  effect  upon 
his  soul,  but  which  did  not,  at  any  rate,  v/eary 
or  disgust  his  mind  with  argument.  He  had,  so 
to  speak,  strolled  into  religion,  had  gone  to  it 
inquisitively  and  with  curiosity,  attaching  little 
importance  to  his  action,  and  expecting  nothing 
at  all  from  the  experiment.    In  this  spirit  he  con- 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        237 

tinued  to  attend  the  Sunday  morning  service  for 
several  weeks. 

One  day,  during  this  period  of  his  spiritual 
experience,  a  missionary  who  had  a  Chinese 
college  in  the  town,  came  into  his  office  with 
a  little  yellow  leaflet  which  he  wished  to  be 
printed.  The  leaflet  contained  texts  from  the 
Bible.  Uninterested  in  Bible  texts,  the  editor 
passed  the  leaflet  to  his  printer  without  reading 
it,  but,  knowing  "  how  particular  and  exacting 
religious  people  are  about  their  requirements, 
expecting  everything  for  nothing,"  he  gave 
orders  that  the  proof  should  be  brought  to  him, 
in  order  to  avoid  misprints  and  consequent  com- 
plaints. 

In  reading  this  proof,  one  of  the  texts  arrested 
his  attention.  He  cannot  remember  what  it  was, 
but  he  recalls  distinctly  the  impression  it  gave 
him — the  feeling  of  a  new  and  sudden  light  on 
the  conduct  and  purpose  of  Life.  In  this  mood 
he  continued  his  reading,  and  presently  came 
upon  words  which,  for  some  reason  or  another, 
caught  him  by  the  soul  and  held  the  beatings 
of  his  brain.  These  words  were  like  an  injunc- 
tion particular  to  himself:  "  Stand  still,  and  see 
the  salvation  of  the  Lord."  In  vain  did  he 
try  to  shake  off  their  impression,  to  persuade 
himself  that  he  was  getting  superstitious,  to  rid 
himself  of  unnatural  self -introspection,  and  to 
recover  his  old  indifference.     It  was  impossible. 


238        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

The  thought  had  fastened  upon  his  consciousness. 
It  clung  to  him  like  an  embrace.  He  was  obliged 
to  stand  still. 

It  seemed  to  him  quite  clear  what  he  was  to 
do.  He  was  to  abandon  anxiety,  to  give  up  his 
chart,  to  discontinue  self-examination,  to  relin- 
quish all  striving,  wrestling,  and  effort.  He  was 
to  do  nothing.  He  was  to  be,  not  active,  but 
passive.  It  was  not  for  him  to  climb  to  God,  but 
for  God  to  descend  to  him.  If  there  was  some- 
thing outside  the  atmosphere  of  this  planet,  it 
would  be  given,  it  could  not  be  captured.  The 
soul  receives,  it  does  not  discover.  Let  him  stand 
still,  and  await  the  will  of  God. 

The  mystery  happened  one  night,  or  rather 
in  the  early  morning,  in  the  grey  dawn  before 
the  sun  had  risen.  He  awoke  from  sleep  on 
the  roof  of  his  house,  and  he  remembers  that 
the  rope  was  flapping  on  the  flagstaff  in  a  gentle 
breeze  and  that  a  flight  of  small  birds  was 
passing  over  some  tree-tops  which  were  just 
visible  in  the  world  below.  How  shall  I  tell 
what  he  has  told  me? — how  shall  I  give  the 
history  of  that  grey  dawn  before  the  sun  had 
risen?  He  came  out  of  sleep  with  the  thought 
of  Jesus  Christ.  He  heard  the  rope  moving 
on  the  flagstaff,  saw  the  flight  of  birds  pass  like 
specks  across  the  haze  of  leaden  skies,  and  was 
aware  that  on  the  roof,  somewhere  on  that  square 
of  dew-drenched  metal  under  the  grey  dawn, 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        239 

there  stood  and  breathed  the  Son  of  Man.  He 
knew  this  as  one  is  aware  of  the  presence  of  a 
person  in  a  room  one  enters  expecting  it  empty. 
He  raised  his  head  from  the  pillow  to  see  if 
this  Presence  was  visible,  if  he  could  behold 
what  he  felt,  if  the  Thought  had  form  and 
walked  upon  the  roof  before  him.  He  knew 
that  he  would  see  nothing,  but  he  looked.  He 
was  sure  that  the  Presence  was  invisible,  but 
he  sought  it.  Nothing  was  there.  Eye  could 
see  nothing,  ear  could  hear  nothing,  hand  could 
touch  nothing.  And  yet,  he  was  not  alone. 
More  real  to  him  than  roof,  or  sky,  or  trees 
was  the  sense  of  this  invisible  Presence.  Its 
influence  was  closer  to  him  than  the  air  he 
breathed;  and  Its  blessing,  as  real  and  unmis- 
takable as  the  scent  of  violets,  was  a  peace  of 
soul  passing  all  understanding.  His  mind  was 
at  rest. 

The  abiding  and  profound  peace  of  this  visi- 
tation assured  him  of  its  verity.  There  was 
no  shock,  no  cataclysmic  upheaval,  no  violent 
integration  of  personality.  His  reason  was  calm 
and  lucid.  He  experienced  no  transport  of  joy, 
and  was  conscious  of  no  uprush  of  ecstasy.  But 
the  change  in  him  was  utter  and  absolute.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  conscious  manhood  he  was 
aware  of  an  inward  peace  so  exquisite  and  per- 
vasive that  it  could  only  be  defined  as  a  new 
birth.     "  I  knew  that  a  new  life  had  begun,"  he 


240        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

says ;  and  with  this  knowledge  everything  that  he 
had  been  in  the  past  seemed  to  close  itself  up  and 
sink  out  of  sight. 

He  did  not  know  what  he  was  to  do  with  this 
new  life,  but,  certain  of  its  reality,  he  took  his 
rifle  back  to  the  armoury  and  shortly  after  retired 
from  the  volunteers,  waiting  for  some  impelling 
force  from  the  invisible  world  towards  a  new 
career.     And  in  the  meantime  he  prayed. 

His  prayer  on  the  roof,  uttered  with  the  calm 
and  quiet  of  the  stars  surrounding  him,  was 
the  seeking  of  a  child's  hand  in  the  dark  for 
its  father's  guidance.  He  prayed,  "  O  God, 
lead  me ! "  and  in  the  evening  he  would  walk 
away  from  the  town,  out  to  the  solitude  and 
mystery  of  the  plain,  and  kneel  there,  no  longer 
with  his  eyes  set  upon  a  star,  and  pray  from 
his  heart  for  guidance  and  a  destiny.  Before 
the  dawn  of  his  illumination  he  had  prayed 
vaguely  to  some  indefinite  Power  dimly  felt  to 
pervade  and  sustain  the  universe;  but  now  he 
prayed  with  the  serenity  of  sure  knowledge  to 
a  Person — not  to  a  Name  in  a  prayer-book, 
not  to  a  Word  so  common  on  the  lips  of  the 
generations  as  to  serve  alike  for  curse  and 
blessing — but  to  a  Person  actual  and  real, 
Whose  presence  he  had  felt,  Whose  power  he 
had  known,  Whose  love  he  had  received  into  his 
soul.  There  was  now  no  doubt,  no  miserable 
unrest,  no  fear  of  silence.     He  was  sure  that 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        241 

his  words  were  heard.  He  was  sure  that  they 
reached  the  heart  of  a  personal  Saviour.  He 
knew  they  would  be  answered. 

Without  anxiety  he  continued  his  daily 
occupations.  He  expected  no  miracle,  but  was 
quietly  convinced  that  sooner  or  later,  and  quite 
naturally,  he  would  find  himself  doing  work  and 
living  a  life  in  consonance  with  the  new  light 
in  his  soul,  the  new  birth  in  his  heart.  It  is 
worthy  the  consideration  of  students  of  the 
Christian  religion  that  conversion  seldom  leaves 
a  nature  content  with  its  own  new  light  and 
the  development  within  the  soul  of  its  own  new 
birth,  but  leads  almost  invariably  to  a  life  of 
selfless  devotion  and  a  spirit  of  the  very  purest 
altruism.  A  soul  saved  from  sin  does  not  so 
much  feel  a  constraint  to  pursue  its  own 
righteousness  as  an  irresistible  impulsion  to  save 
the  souls  of  other  people.  Conversion  does  not 
lead  to  the  monastery,  but  to  the  mission 
field. 

The  prayer  of  this  man  was  answered  and 
work  was  put  into  his  hands.  It  came  very 
simply  and  made  no  break  in  the  continuity  of 
his  life.  The  pen  which  he  had  used  to  interest 
and  beguile  became  in  his  hand  a  weapon  for 
righteousness. 

"  It  is  the  only  work  in  my  life,"  he  says, 
"  that  I  care  to  think  about,  and  it  was  badly 
done,  and  might  have  been  done  much  better; 


242        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

but  I  knew  it  was  for  me  to  undertake  it,  and 
to  lose  no  time.     It  lasted  me  about  two  years. 

"  The  town  was  full  of  gambling-houses, 
brothels,  opium  dens,  and  places  still  worse  that 
cannot  be  named.  There  was  no  end  to  the 
degradation.  And  it  had  never  once  occurred 
to  me  that  I  was  in  any  way  concerned  with 
these  things." 

Without  shock  or  violence  of  any  kind,  with 
no  sensation  of  a  sudden  awakening,  he  perceived 
that  it  was  the  will  of  God  with  him  to  strike 
a  blow  against  this  tolerated  and  long-accepted 
infamy.  Accordingly  he  paid  visits  to  these 
various  places,  studied  them  with  care,  and  then 
began  to  write  about  them  in  his  paper.  At  once 
the  town  was  up  in  arms  against  him.  What! 
to  expose  and  drag  into  the  light  of  day  things 
purposely  curtained  from  respectability  and 
shuttered  from  the  gaze  of  decency:  to  force 
public  opinion  to  look  full  in  the  face  of  some- 
thing it  would  not  invite  into  its  house  and 
ignored  upon  the  streets*  to  make  Government 
take  public  notice  of  something  whose  existence 
it  did  not  recognise,  and  whose  iniquities  it  only 
shared  in  its  private  capacity:  what!  to  insist 
that  polite  and  civilised  society  should  consider 
itself  in  any  way  responsible  for  cosmopolitan 
profligacy,  that  the  lady  in  her  rose-scented 
rooms  should  be  forced  to  breathe  the  foul 
odours  of  an  Asian   sewer,   that  innocent  and 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        243 

pure-minded  girls  should  be  made  to  see  the 
nakedness  and  scarlet  shame  behind  the  curtains 
and  shutters  of  inevitable  vice — let  him  see  the 
reason  and  justice  of  these  objections,  and  cease 
at  once  from  this  new  work  of  his,  before  the 
paper  was  ruined  and  he  himself  banned  by 
society. 

The  converted  soul,  conscious  of  a  destiny, 
found  itself  opposed  by  "  the  complaisant  spirit 
of  the  man  of  the  world,  who  from  the  depths 
of  his  mediocrity  and  ease  presumes  to  promul- 
gate the  law  of  progress,  and  as  dictator  to  fix 
its  speed."  Let  me  give  the  entire  passage: 
"  Who  does  not  know  this  temper  of  the  man 
of  the  world,  that  worst  enemy  of  the  world? 
His  inexhaustible  patience  of  abuses  that  only 
torment  others;  his  apologetic  word  for  beliefs 
that  may  perhaps  not  be  so  precisely  true  as 
one  might  wish,  and  institutions  that  are  not 
altogether  so  useful  as  some  might  think 
possible;  his  cordiality  towards  progress  and 
improvement  in  a  general  way,  and  his  coldness 
or  antipathy  to  each  progressive  proposal  in  par- 
ticular; his  pygmy  hope  that  life  will  one  day 
become  somewhat  better,  punily  shivering  by  the 
side  of  his  gigantic  conviction  that  it  might  well 
be  infinitely  worse  "  (John  Morley's  Voltaire). 

In  this  treaty  port  there  was  a  cosmopolitan 
society  composed  entirely  of  such  spirits,  and 
to  hint  that  respectability  was  merely  a  mask 


M4*        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

covering  the  hideous  features  of  infamy  was  to 
put  those  spirits  into  arms  against  the  inno- 
vator. The  hostility  he  encountered  was  not  only 
public  and  general,  but  private  and  personal.  He 
received  visits  from  high  officials  and  communica- 
tions from  powerful  dignitaries.  He  was  told 
that  representatives  of  foreign  nations  had  lodged 
protests  against  the  conduct  of  his  journal.  He 
was  informed  that  his  exposures  were  a  menace 
to  international  peace.  He  was  definitely  threat- 
ened with  the  suppression  of  his  newspaper. 

But  the  man  could  not  be  turned  from  his 
purpose.  He  had  no  desire  for  the  patronage 
of  the  great,  for  the  rewards  of  the  rich,  for 
the  gratitude  of  the  powerful.  One  thing  was 
clear  before  his  eyes,  and  it  grew  clearer  the 
more  thoroughly  and  widely  he  carried  his  in- 
vestigations— that  the  souls  of  men  and  women 
and  children  were  perishing  in  a  great  and 
awful  multitude  all  about  him;  and  he  held  it 
was  the  will  of  God,  in  the  scorn  of  consequence, 
that  he  should  compel  authority  and  power  to 
declare  whether  they  countenanced  and  protected 
the  forces  which  were  every  day  producing  this 
holocaust  of  souls,  and  that  he  should  hold  up 
to  the  representatives  of  religion  the  true  picture 
of  the  town,  leaving  them  to  decide  whether  they 
should  keep  silence  or  take  arms. 

One  need  not  dwell  upon  the  martyrdom  of 
this  man.     He  was  shunned  by  society.     Legal 


TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT        245 

proceedings  were  instituted  against  him.  He 
was  threatened  with  beggary.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  dwell  upon  these  things  because  he  did 
not  suffer  from  them;  he  was  immune  from  the 
petty  enmities  of  men.  Quietly  and  steadfastly 
he  pursued  his  way,  happy  in  the  knowledge  that 
the  work  was  given  him  to  do,  conscious  that 
he  was  upheld  by  invisible  power.  And 
while  he  could  see  the  effect  of  his  work  in 
the  gradual  diminution  of  evil-houses  and  the 
increasing  flight  of  criminal  pariahs,  he  could 
also  observe,  not  without  a  smile,  the  advance 
of  his  paper  in  the  matter  of  circulation.  In  spite 
of  protests,  and  in  spite  of  the  most  emphatic 
warnings  of  a  boycott,  the  sales  of  the  paper  in- 
creased with  amazing  rapidity. 

At  the  end  of  nearly  two  years  he  had  his 
reward.  The  last  of  the  evil-places  was  closed, 
the  last  of  the  devils  had  taken  flight,  and  author- 
ity and  power  came  forward  to  shake  his  hand  and 
congratulate  him  upon  the  work  he  had  done  for 
decency  and  good  order ! 

This  man,  single-handed  and  most  bitterly  op- 
posed by  local  sovereignty,  cleared  a  whole  treaty 
port  of  inhuman  iniquity.  It  is  a  work  which 
does  not  so  much  stagger  the  imagination  as 
set  one  thinking  how  great  a  work  might  be  done 
for  righteousness  if  every  man  with  the  oppor- 
tunity and  the  power  set  himself  to  make  war 
upon  what  is  base  and  unworthy.     One  wonders 


246        TALE  OF  A  TREATY  PORT 

what  might  be  done  for  London  if  all  the  churches 
and  all  the  newspapers  combined  to  do  away  with 
the  scandal  of  the  streets. 

If  one  reflects  how  many  hundreds  of  men, 
women,  and  children  might  have  been  morally 
corrupted  and  spiritually  destroyed  in  that  town, 
had  this  man  continued  his  life  of  easy  sin  and 
tolerant  good-nature,  it  is  brought  home  to  one 
how  great  is  the  sin  of  omission,  indifference, 
and  neglect. 

Wherever  destiny  may  take  the  man  of  whom 
I  have  written,  there  he  will  exercise  a  twofold 
influence  for  good:  he  will  draw  a  trenchant 
sword  against  iniquity,  and  throw  the  empty 
scabbard  for  reproach  at  the  feet  of  a  complacent 
Church. 

Is  it  not  a  matter  for  reflection  that  the  mind 
of  such  a  man  is  troubled  and  made  sad,  not 
by  the  sins  of  the  whole  world,  but  by  the  faith- 
lessness of  the  little  Flock? 


THE  CLEANEST  THING  IN 
THE  HOUSE 

THERE  are  still  a  few  streets,  alleys,  and 
courts  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Drury 
Lane  to  remind  the  middle-aged  Londoner 
of  that  famous  quarter  as  it  existed  in  the 
Eighties,  before  Kingsway  was  driven  like  a 
broad  furrow  through  festering  kennels  and 
pestiferous  warrens  from  the  Strand  to  Holborn. 
But  these  remaining  records  and  mouldering 
souvenirs  of  a  dreadful  place  are  now  so  open 
to  the  wide  avenues  of  respectability,  so  approach- 
able from  the  prosperous  streets  of  civic  decency, 
so  exposed  to  the  eye  of  the  police,  that  only 
those  who  carry  in  their  minds  a  very  distinct 
and  intimate  impression  of  the  past  can  really 
know  the  thick  pack  of  all  that  huddled  squalor, 
the  dark  secrecy  of  all  those  burrowing  alleys, 
the  density  of  all  that  teeming  swarm  of  filthy 
and  debased  humanity  which  once  crowded  the 
neighbourhood  with  horror  and  made  a  fastness 
in  the  very  centre  of  London  for  crime  and  moral 
abomination. 

Nevertheless,     even    in    the     Seventies    and 
Eighties,  there  were  people  living  in  this  terrible 

247 


248  CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

quarter  of  the  town  who  were  conscious  of  the 
higher  life  and  who  made  a  struggle  to  realise 
their  souls.  A  man  whom  I  know  very  well,  and 
who  now  occupies  the  position  of  chief  responsi- 
bility in  one  of  the  principal  business  houses  of 
London,  was  born  more  than  forty  years  ago  in 
the  sink  of  Drury  Lane;  he  and  his  fatherless 
brothers  and  sisters,  a  large  family,  were  brought 
up  in  the  knowledge  of  God  and  with  an  aspira- 
tion towards  moral  beauty,  by  a  mother  who 
earned  the  daily  bread  of  the  little  household  as 
a  washerwoman.  Nothing  that  he  learned 
afterwards  concerning  religion  ever  approached 
in  its  effect  on  his  character  the  simple  instruc- 
tion and  the  wonderful  example  of  this  toiling 
mother  of  Drury  Lane. 

In  a  household  far  less  noble  than  this,  there 
was  born  some  six-and-thirty  years  ago  in  one 
of  the  darkest,  foulest,  and  most  secret  slums  of 
Drury  Lane,  a  girl  whose  spiritual  experience  is 
the  subject  of  this  narrative.  The  father  was 
better  than  most  of  his  neighbours;  he  was  neither 
footpad,  pickpocket,  nor  bully;  he  would  take 
honest  work  when  he  could  get  it.  The  mother 
was  a  weak  and  feckless  creature,  but  she  had 
come  into  Drury  Lane  trailing  clouds  of  glory 
from  the  rural  respectability  of  Camberwell,  and 
made  out  of  her  past  a  continual  contrast  with 
her  present  which  was  not  without  its  moral 
effect  on  the  children.     The  swarm  of  dirty- 


CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE  249 

faced,  ragged,  stockingless  and  shoeless  brats 
knew  at  least  that  there  was  somewhere  in  the 
universe  a  Something  better  than  Drury  Lane; 
playing  in  those  littered  gutters  they  were  con- 
scious of  superiority,  and  among  themselves  and 
their  playmates  the  name  of  Camberwell  as- 
sumed all  the  majesty  and  mystery,  all  the  dis- 
tance and  sublimity  which  Belgravia  has  for 
Kensington,  and  Kensington  for  Kennington. 
They  were  aware  of  something  better  than  they 
knew.  And  as  their  mother  constantly  empha- 
sised the  magnificence  of  her  past  by  assuring 
them  all  that  she  went  regularly  to  church  in 
those  days,  that  the  clergyman  and  his  wife  used 
to  come  and  call  upon  them,  and  that  she  had 
once  won  a  prize  in  the  Sunday  School,  these 
little  hungry  tatterdermalions  of  Drury  Lane  be- 
gan to  associate  the  idea  of  religion  with  their 
vague  idea  of  something  better  than  they  knew, 
and  so  grew  up  with  a  respect  for  Christianity 
which  was  almost  unknown  among  their  criminal 
neighbours. 

Bess,  the  eldest  child,  was  thrown  so  constantly 
into  the  company  of  her  mother  that  she  may 
be  said  to  have  enjoyed  opportunities  for  moral 
culture  and  social  refinement  of  a  quite  unusual 
nature.  The  girl  was  her  mother's  handmaid. 
She  minded  babies,  made  beds,  emptied  slops, 
peeled  potatoes,  scrubbed  floors,  dusted  shelves, 
cleaned  windows,  darned  stockings,  and  mended 


250   CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

clothes;  she  was  quick  enough  to  do  the  family's 
marketing,  clever  enough  to  nurse  her  mother 
when  the  family  was  enlarging  itself,  and  know- 
ing enough  to  hunt  London  for  the  scraps  and 
broken  meats   which  are  given  away   at   night 
by    fishmongers,    butchers,    confectioners,    and 
restaurateurs.     Constantly  in  the  society  of  her 
mother,  standing  in  a  superior  position  to  the 
remaining  members  of  the   family,  and  armed 
even  with  authority  to  smack  faces,  slap  hands, 
and  thump  backs,  this  little  girl  grew  into  maiden- 
hood with  a  sense  of  power  and  a  consciousness 
of  virtue  which  might  have  made  her  almost 
odiously  Pharisaical  but  for  a  stake  in  the  flesh 
which  was  ultimately  destined  to  pierce  her  soul. 
As  it  was,  she  received  from  intimate  conversa- 
tions with  her  mother  some  notion  of  religion, 
some    floating    idea    of    spiritual    responsibility, 
some  shadowy  conception  of  God  and  Atheists, 
Christ  and  Satan,  Heaven  and  Hell.    If  any  one 
ever  said  their  prayers  in  that  household  it  was 
Bess. 

She  worked  so  hard,  and  the  water  from  the 
tap  was  so  unsatisfying,  that  occasionally  she  was 
allowed  reluctant  mouthfuls  of  her  father's  beer 
and  her  mother's  stout.  In  thus  sacrificing 
themselves  for  their  child,  the  parents  were 
sowing  in  her  blood  seeds  of  a  poison  which 
fructified  and  bore  a  harvest  terrible  to  her  after- 
life. 


CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE  251 

On  the  death  of  her  father,  and  when  there 
were  other  sisters  old  enough  to  take  her  place  as 
maid-of-all-work  to  the  family,  Bess  was  sent  out 
to  make  her  own  way  in  the  world.  She  had  for 
recommendation  in  the  labour  market,  a  strong 
body,  good  health,  and  the  advantage  of  a  broken 
youth.  Against  her  was  the  overwhelming  draw- 
back of  Drury  Lane.  In  vain  she  went  from 
place  to  place  asking  for  employment,  in  vain 
she  entered  her  name  in  the  books  of  registry 
offices,  in  vain  did  she  take  counsel  of  her  friends 
and  acquaintances  at  the  street-corner.  There 
was  no  work  to  be  had  at  factories,  no  private 
resident  would  take  a  girl  from  Drury  Lane  as 
domestic  servant,  no  one  could  tell  her  of  any 
opening  as  a  scrubber  of  stone  floors  or  as  a 
hand  in  a  laundry.  It  seemed  that  all  her  virtue 
and  physical  strength  were  useless  to-  London. 
The  family  connection  with  Camberwell  appeared 
to  mean  nothing  to  mankind.  She  might  just 
as  well  have  been  a  cripple  and  a  criminal. 

But  one  day  her  mother  brought  good  news 
to  her — brought  it  back  in  lurching  haste  and 
bosky  excitement  from  the  public-house  at  which 
she  had  been  consoling  her  recent  widowhood. 
The  publican  wanted  a  servant.  He  thought, 
from  what  the  mother  had  told  him,  that  Bess 
might  do.  In  any  case  he  was  willing  to  have  a 
look  at  her,  and  if  she  seemed  likely  he  would 
speak  to  his  wife,  and  if  the  wife  thought  she 


252  CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

would  do  for  the  place,  they  would  at  least  give 
her  a  trial.  She  would  have  to  do  all  the  house- 
work, which  included  scrubbing  and  dusting  the 
bars,  and  help  the  lady  with  the  cooking.  She 
must  be  an  early  riser,  not  afraid  of  hard  work, 
honest, — no  mistake  about  that ! — thorough,  civil, 
respectful,  and  sober.  Her  wages  would  be  ten 
pounds   a   year.     It    sounded   too   good   to   be 

true. 

It  was  a  day  of  pomp  and  glory  for  Bess  when 
she  set  out  to  take  up  her  residence  in  the  "  Red 
Dragon."  She  wore  a  new  hat,  a  new  dress,  and 
balanced  her  regal  dignity  with  a  new  port- 
manteau in  one  hand,  and  a  new  umbrella  in  the 
other.  On  her  hands  were  gloves.  You  can 
imagine  the  raillery  of  the  brothers,  the  envy  of 
the  sisters,  the  tears  of  the  mother,  and  the  pride 
of  Bess,  at  the  moment  of  parting.  Her  progress 
through  the  alley  began  in  consternation  and 
ended  with  encouraging  insults.  Barefoot  and 
blasphemous  little  urchins  offered  to  carry  her 
bag  for  a  pint;  slatternly  girls  inquired  from 
windows,  doorways,  and  the  mouths  of  tunnelling 
alleys  where  she  had  got  her  hat;  but  for  the 
presence  of  two  brothers  slouching  self-con- 
sciously and  unwillingly  on  either  side  of  her, 
she  would  have  found  her  triumphal  progress 
humiliated  by  horseplay  and  made  comical  by 
practical  jokes. 

So  passed  Bess  out  of  the  foul  slum  in  which 


CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE  253 

she  had  been  born,  and  entered  the  great  world 
of  nob,  snob,  and  mob  whose  portals  for  her  were 
minatory  with  a  Red  Dragon. 

There  is  one  thing  above  all  others  of  which 
a  girl  fresh  from  the  self-consequence  of  her  own 
home  and  new  to  the  atmosphere  of  third-rate 
domestic  service  swiftly  becomes  aware.  This  is 
the  contempt  in  which  she  is  held  by  all  about 
her.  It  is  one  of  the  convictions  of  inferior 
minds  that  they  can  only  exercise  authority  by 
means  of  tyranny,  and  that  they  can  only  safe- 
guard the  inviolability  of  their  own  importance 
by  an  open  and  constant  display  of  disdain  to- 
wards those  who  eat  their  salt.  And  in  such  a 
place  as  a  tavern  this  contempt  for  the  servant 
is  spread  over  a  wide  area.  It  is  not  only  the 
publican  and  his  wife  and  their  children  who 
treat  the  drudge  as  dirt,  but  the  barmaids  and 
the  potmen.  She  is  exposed  from  morning  till 
night  to  the  hard  words  and  disdainful  looks  of 
master  and  mistress,  she  is  made  to  feel  her  posi- 
tion in  fifty  petty  ways  by  the  barmaids,  and  if 
the  potmen  choose  to  persecute  her  with  sensual 
insolence,  she  must  put  up  with  it  and  expect  it 
as  the  lowest  of  human  creatures  in  the  estab- 
lishment. 

It  was  a  bitter  experience  for  poor  Bess  when 
she  entered  upon  service  in  the  "  Red  Dragon.' ' 
Fresh  from  the  tearful  embraces  of  her  mother, 
and  still  conscious  of  the  sensation  she  had  caused 


254   CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

in  her  progress  through  the  streets,  she  was  vio- 
lently thrown  into  a  position  of  meanest  servitude 
and   found   herself  treated  as  something  lower 
than  a  dog.    Determined,  however,  to  give  what 
is  called  satisfaction,  she  swallowed  the  lumps 
which  kept  forming  in  her  throat,  and  endeav- 
oured to  put  away  with  her  best  dress,  her  new 
hat,  and  her  new  gloves  the  feeling  of  resentment 
and  bitter  disappointment  which  made  a  pool  of 
tears  of  her  young  heart.    For  weeks  and  months 
she  fought  a  great  battle  with  the  pride  of  her 
nature,  and  learned  at  last  a  submission  of  soul 
which  seemed  to  protect  her  from  all  dangers. 
She  was  made  to  feel,  and  she  came  to  believe 
it  with  shame  and  misery,  that  she  was  clumsy, 
slow,  idle,  and  inefficient.     She  took  all  the  hard 
words  thrown  at  her  head  as  her  just  punishment 
for  awkward  hands,   aching  legs,   and   a  tired 
brain.    She  struggled  to  be  quicker,  that  is  to  say, 
struggled  to  do  the  work  of  three  people  with  the 
thoroughness  just  possible  to  two.     She  was  al- 
ways breathless,  always  hot,  always  tired.     The 
idea  of  sitting  down  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
never  entered  her  head;  found  in  such  a  posture 
she  would  have  been  treated  as  a  criminal;  her 
master  did  not  pay  people  ten  pounds  a  year  to 
sit  still  and  do  nothing.     So  she  never  rested, 
never  paused  for  a  breath ;  but  all  day  long,  from 
morning  till  night,  she  was  fetching  and  carrying, 
cooking  and  washing,  scrubbing  and  polishing — 


CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE   255 

the  slave  of  everybody  and  the  scorn  of  the  whole 
house. 

Consider  the  life  of  this  girl.  Because  she 
was  poor,  because  she  had  nowhere  else  to  go, 
because  she  was  a  woman — from  the  dawn  of  the 
day  till  late  in  the  night  she  was  made  to  toil 
infinitely  longer  hours  than  a  galley-slave  and  was 
treated  worse  than  a  tinker's  dog.  She  had  no 
hour  of  rest  in  the  middle  day,  no  time  of  amuse- 
ment in  the  evening,  no  privacy  except  the  soli- 
tude of  her  attic  under  the  slates.  When  she 
went  up  to  her  bed,  aching  in  every  limb,  she 
felt  guilty,  felt  conscious  of  shirking,  because 
the  barmaids  were  still  busy,  master  and  mistress 
were  still  in  the  parlour,  and  the  potmen  were 
still  on  duty.  When  she  woke  to  the  rattle  of  her 
merciless  alarm-clock  she  sprang  out  of  bed  in  a 
panic  of  alarm,  afraid  that  her  mistress,  with  hair 
in  pins,  would  be  climbing  the  stairs  to  catch  her 
asleep.  From  the  moment  when  she  woke  to  the 
moment  when  she  crawled  guiltily  to  bed,  this 
young  girl  was  at  the  beck  and  call  of  everybody 
in  the  house,  was  everybody's  slave,  and  had  to 
get  through  work  which  would  have  tried  the 
sinews  and  broken  the  heart  of  a  navvy.  And 
she  was  in  the  heyday  of  life,  her  Spring  was 
passing  in  this  fashion,  never  to  return. 

The  trial  of  her  temper  was  considerable,  but 
the  trial  of  her  bodily  strength  was  greater.  She 
came  to  feel  at  times  that  it  was  impossible  for 


256  CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

her  to  do  the  work.  Early  in  the  morning,  roused 
out  of  natural  sleep  by  the  unnatural  clock,  she 
was  increasingly  visited  by  a  feeling  of  despair, 
a  sensation  of  impending  collapse :  she  would  cry 
to  herself,  groan  to  herself  as  she  dressed,  and 
descend  the  stairs  with  something  like  the  des- 
peration of  mutiny  in  her  labouring  heart. 

One  morning  it  came  to  her  that  she  would  be 
able  to  do  her  work  better,  get  more  heart  into 
her,  if  she  had  a  little  drink  at  the  beginning 
of  the  day.  It  was  not  difficult  to  procure  this 
stimulant,  and  she  felt  no  shame  in  taking  it. 
The  sensation  was  pleasant;  a  delightful  vigour 
and  a  cheerful  warmth  pervaded  her  body;  she 
went  about  her  work  with  a  will. 

But  during  the  day  the  body  seemed  to  droop 
and  slacken;  the  need  for  stimulant  was  unmis- 
takable; she  kept  her  eyes  open,  seized  an  oppor- 
tunity, and  took  what  she  wanted.  Henceforth 
there  entered  into  her  life  a  new  joy.  It  was  not 
only  the  sensation  of  the  alcohol  which  pleased 
her;  there  was  the  exercise  of  brain  cunning  in 
getting  it.  Of  a  sudden  she  woke  up  to  find 
herself  an  intelligent  creature.  She  could  watch: 
she  could  plot:  she  could  bide  her  time:  she 
could  steal!  These  people  who  treated  her  as  a 
fool — she  could  cheat  them!  That  satisfied  her 
pride,  that  soothed  her  growing  feeling  of  re- 
sentment. 

Not  many  months  before  this  girl  had  been 


CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE  257 

perfectly  honest  and  perfectly  sober.  In  the 
centre  of  depravity  and  crime  she  had  been  chaste 
and  virtuous.  What  a  miracle!  And  now,  in  a 
few  months,  she  had  a  new  nature;  respectable 
employment  had  driven  her  to  drink  and  made  a 
thief  of  her.  A  little  touch  of  Camberwell  in 
the  night  of  the  "  Red  Dragon '  might  have 
saved  her;  kindness,  humanity,  religious  love 
might  almost  have  made  her  a  noble  woman. 

She  grew  more  daring  in  her  pilferings,  and 
more  reckless  in  the  satisfaction  of  her  craving. 
The  end  was  certain,  but  she  had  reached  a  point 
where  she  really  did  not  care.  One  day  a  bitter 
word  from  her  mistress  made  her  answer  back, 
sharply,  insolently,  and  with  defiance.  Alcohol 
had  made  her  bold.  She  was  given  a  month's 
notice. 

Now,  a  girl  who  has  once  been  a  servant  in  a 
public-house  can  never  hope  for  any  other  em- 
ployment. It  is  a  curious  thing  that  taverns — 
about  which  so  much  cheerful  poetry  has  been 
written,  which  are  the  legitimate  shops  of  a 
legitimate  trade,  which  bring  occasional  dividends 
to  widows,  spinsters,  and  even  clergymen  among 
the  investors  in  breweries,  and  which  are  only 
denounced  by  fanatical  teetotallers  for  whom 
every  sensible  man  has  a  prodigious  contempt — 
it  is  a  curious  thing,  I  say,  that  taverns  should 
have  this  evil  reputation.  I  am  told  that  no  re- 
spectable lady  would  ever  take  into  her  service  a 


258   CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

girl  from  a  public-house.  I  am  told  that  even 
in  the  fringes  of  society,  among  very  poor  middle- 
class  people,  who  find  it  difficult  to  get  any  serv- 
ants at  all,  the  mention  of  a  public-house  shuts 
the  door  in  the  face  of  an  applicant  for  employ- 
ment. Not  only  this,  in  houses  of  ill-fame,  where 
men  and  women  are  living  continually  in  the 
shadow  of  the  policeman,  a  girl  from  a  public- 
house  would  stand  no  chance  whatever  of  a  place 
in  the  kitchen.  For  some  reason  or  another,  soci- 
ety seems  to  have  made  up  its  mind  that  the  at- 
mosphere of  a  tavern  is  prejudicial  to  the  morals 
of  a  young  woman.  In  any  case,  society  will 
not  take  the  risk  of  introducing  into  its  base- 
ments and  its  attics  a  girl  who  has  once  scrubbed 
the  floor  of  Bottle  and  Jug  and  dusted  the  china 
ornaments  of  a  publican's  mantelpiece.  Once  in 
a  public-house,  always  in  a  public-house — this,  I 
am  told,  is  the  invariable  rule  of  domestic  service. 

Bess  was  unacquainted  with  this  custom,  and 
never  gave  the  subject  a  thought,  when  she  took 
service  in  the  "  Red  Dragon";  she  was  soon 
brought  to  realise  its  existence  and  appreciate 
its  force,  when  she  tried  to  get  service  elsewhere. 
No  one  would  have  her.  Registry  offices  told 
her  that  they  did  not  deal  with  publicans.  Her 
mother  said  that  she  would  look  about  in  the 
neighbourhood — which  meant  that  she  would  in- 
quire among  the  taverns  of  Drury  Lane. 

At  last  a  second  place  was  found  for  poor 


CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE   259 

Bess,  and  once  again  she  began  a  hard  life  which 
speedily  degenerated  into  a  life  of  cheating  and 
of  secret  drinking.     The  poison  was  now  deep- 
rooted  in  the  fibres  of  her  moral  being,  and  if  her 
employer  had  been  an  angel  she  would  still  have 
cheated  him,  and  still  have  drunk  herself  into 
oblivion.    There  was  a  certain  laxity  in  the  man- 
agement of  this  house,  and  the  publican  and  his 
wife — who    were    often    fuddled    themselves — 
seemed  to  expect  a  little  tippling  on  the  part  of 
their  servants.    Therefore  Bess  kept  this  situation 
for  over  a  year,  and  might  have  kept  it  for  ever 
if  she  had  not  on  one  occasion  taken  so  much 
alcohol  that  she  lay  senseless  on  the  kitchen  floor 
for  many  hours,   and   was   found  with  cinders 
smouldering    in    her    apron    and    skirt — "quite 
enough,"  as  her  mistress  said,  who  took  brandy 
to  recover  from  the  shock  of  the  affair,  "  to  set 
the  house  on  fire." 

After  some  months  of  idleness,  in  which  all 
her  savings  vanished  into  the  tills  of  the  publican 
— their  original  source — this  poor  desperate  and 
descending  woman  got  a  situation  in  a  low  beer- 
house and  vanished  for  some  considerable  time 
from  the  ranks  of  the  leisured  classes.  It  was 
such  a  tavern  as  the  cut-throats  of  Eugene  Sue 
chose  for  their  meeting-place.  Hidden  among 
the  darkest  and  most  crooked  sewers  of  Drury 
Lane,  it  hooded  itself  from  observation  under 
a  cloak  of  grime,  and  stooped  down  as  low  as 


260  CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

it  could  get  in  the  mud  and  garbage  of  the  gutters; 
it  was  a  place  never  visited  by  respectable  work- 
ing-men; footpads,  murderers,  and  bullies  filled 
its  dirty  bars,  and  the  vilest  of  low  women  made 
it  their  place  of  gossip  and  business;  it  was  a 
veritable  thieves'  kitchen,  a  boozing  ken  for  the 
worst  ruffians  in  London,  a  place  where  you  could 
buy  a  murder  for  a  few  shillings. 

In  one  respect  this  situation  was  the  easiest 
of  the  three.  The  landlord  and  his  wife  were 
not  particular  as  to  cleanliness.  Bess  had  time 
on  her  hands.  She  could  sit  down  and  rest;  it 
was  even  possible  to  snatch  forty  winks  in  the 
afternoon.  A  very  little  labour  in  the  morning 
was  sufficient  to  accomplish  the  greater  part  of 
her  duties;  for  the  rest  of  the  day  she  had  only 
to  assist  her  mistress  in  front  of  a  smoky  fire 
with  grimy  saucepans  and  greasy  frying-pans. 
And  the  mistress  was  kind.  "  Take  a  drink,  girl; 
I'm  sure  you  must  need  it,"  was  a  common 
speech  with  her.  They  would  sit  together  in  the 
kitchen  boozing  and  talking,  almost  like  sisters, 
while  the  landlord  smoked  his  pipe,  drank  his 
beer,  and  listened  to  the  jargon  of  his  customers 
in  the  bar. 

But  while  the  landlord's  wife  could  drink  all 
day  and  seldom  needed  to  be  carried  up  to  bed, 
Bess  was  often  so  drenched  in  alcohol  that  by 
three  or  four  in  the  afternoon  she  was  helpless 
and  useless  for  the  rest  of  the  day.    This  dismay- 


CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE   261 

ing  weakness  of  their  servant  gave  such  concern 
to  master  and  mistress  that  at  last  they  had  to 
speak  roughly  to  her,  to  threaten  her  with  dis- 
missal, and  treat  her  with  a  brutal  severity.  But 
neither  curses  nor  blows  had  any  power  to  effect 
a  change.  One  night,  drunk  and  deep-sleeping, 
they  left  her  where  she  lay  on  the  kitchen  floor — 
a  pail  of  dirty  water  thrown  over  her  having 
failed  to  wake  her  up.  On  the  following  morn- 
ing the  landlord  came  downstairs  to  find  her  in 
the  bar.  She  was  sitting  in  his  chair,  her  feet 
outstretched,  her  head  drooping,  her  eyes  glazed 
and  heavy — drunk  and  senseless.  This  was  too 
much  for  the  master.  The  girl  was  thrown  out 
of  the  chair,  thrown  out  of  the  bar,  and  thrown 
out  of  the  house. 

From  that  day  forward  her  life  was  passed 
in  the  gutters  of  the  city.  She  was  so  sunken 
that  no  one  in  the  world  would  give  her  decent 
employment,  even  if  she  had  sought  it.  But  she 
was  too  far  gone  for  ambition.  Only  to  drink, 
only  to  sleep — this  was  the  fulness  of  her  life. 
She  wandered  from  street  to  street,  made  ac- 
quaintance with  women  in  like  case  with  herself, 
learned  how  to  cadge,  discovered  corners  where 
she  could  sleep  undisturbed  by  police,  formed  the 
usual  friendships  of  the  lodging-house,  and  sank 
beneath  the  scum  of  destitution  to  the  ooze  and 
slime  of  unthinkable  depravity. 

Poor  Bess !    To  have  seen  her  as  she  was  then 


282   CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

— in  her  clammy  rags,  her  broken  boots,  her  bat- 
tered hat;  to  look  at  the  matted  hair,  the  inflamed 
skin,  the  glittering  eyes;  to  watch  the  slouch  of 
her  gait  and  to  mark  the  indifference  of  her  soul 
to  censure  or  to  ridicule — this  was  to  feel  anger 
against  a  low  brute  who  could  so  vilely,  in  the 
sight  of  children  and  young  girls,  degrade  the 
sacred  honour  of  womanhood.     But  if  one  had 
known  the  impressions  of  life  stored  in  her  brain 
from  childhood,  one  must  have  pitied  her.     She 
had  never  known  nobility  of  character,  she  had 
never  seen  beauty,  she  had  never  felt  the  influence 
of  holiness.     From  infancy  she  had  been  sur- 
rounded by  poverty  and  deprivation;  untaught  to 
read,  untaught  to  play,  she  had  been  a  drudge  in 
childhood,  a  maid-of-all-work  in  girlhood,  and  at 
the   dawn  of  womanhood   an   overdriven  slave 
to  heartless  taskmasters.     This  was  her  knowl- 
edge of  life.    If  one  pure  word  of  love  had  been 
said  to  her  in  childhood,  if  one  kind  hand  had 
been  stretched  to  her  in  youth,  if  at  the  threshold 
of  her  womanhood  one  glimpse  of  loveliness  had 
been  shown  to  her  soul,  might  she  not  have  trod- 
den  another   road    and    had   another   music    in 
her   heart?     One   shudders   to   think  how   vast 
a   multitude   of    rich   and   leisured   people   sur- 
rounded the  neglected  childhood  of  this  London 

girl. 

Occasionally  remorse  visited  her  brain.     The 
influence  of  Camberwell  was  drugged,  but  it  still 


CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE   263 

existed.  When  she  was  more  than  usually  beg- 
gared for  a  coin  and  forced  to  sleep  night  after 
night  in  a  doorway  without  a  sufficient  supply 
of  alcohol  for  indifference  or  oblivion,  she  would 
be  conscious  of  that  vague  and  shadowy  Some- 
thing better  in  life,  which  had  been  the  only  Hans 
Andersen,  the  only  Arabian  Night,  nay,  the  only 
Christ  of  her  childhood.  And  in  these  moments 
she  would  draw  her  rags  close  about  her,  fold 
her  thin  arms  tightly  together,  rock  herself  back- 
wards and  forwards  on  the  doorstep,  and  moan, 
and  whimper,  and  shed  bitter  tears,  conscious  of 
immense  loss. 

One  night  as  she  wandered  aimlessly  and 
sorrowfully  through  the  lamplit  summer  air,  she 
came  upon  a  group  of  men  and  women  holding 
a  religious  service  at  a  street-corner.  She  stopped 
and  listened.  A  young  man  was  preaching;  at 
his  side  was  a  wooden  contrivance  suspending  a 
hymn-sheet;  just  below  him  was  another  young 
man  seated  at  a  harmonium.  The  crowd  was 
composed  chiefly  of  ragged  and  wretched  men; 
immediately  in  front  of  the  preacher  and  the 
harmonium  was  a  line  of  decent  women,  among 
them  a  fair-haired  Sister  in  uniform. 

Not  curious,  not  in  the  least  conscious  of  re- 
pentance, Bess  stopped  and  listened.  She  was 
tired,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  rest.  She  was  melan- 
choly, and  this  thing  was  a  distraction.  Now 
and  then  she  looked  away  from  the  crowd  and  let 


264  CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

her  eyes  rest  on  the  opposite  windows  of  a  public- 
house.     If  she  only  had  twopence! 

After  the  sermon,  of  which  she  understood 
nothing,  and  to  which  she  had  hardly  listened, 
the  preacher  gave  out  the  words  of  a  hymn. 
Some  one  began  to  handle  the  wooden  contriv- 
ance at  his  side,  and  presently  to  turn  the  sheets. 
This  interested  Bess.  Then  the  young  man  at 
the  harmonium  laid  his  hands  upon  the  keys. 
A  sense  of  pleasantness,  of  movement,  of  some- 
thing happening,  came  to  the  poor  Miserable  on 
the  kerb.  She  looked  at  the  grim  faces  of  the 
people  about  her,  and  half -smiled.  It  was  like 
the  warmth  and  cheerfulness  of  a  public-house 
after  the  hostility  of  the  streets.  She  told  her- 
self that  she  liked  music. 

As  they  were  singing,  she  looked  across  the 
street  and  watched  with  greedy  eyes  the  crowd 
of  men  and  women  in  the  bars  of  the  tavern. 
Surely  some  one  there,  with  this  cheerful  music 
in  the  air,  would  give  her  a  drink.  No  one 
ought  to  be  mean  now  Oh,  God,  what  would 
she  not  give  for  just  one  glass ! 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  of  something 
more  than  the  music.  That  music  now  ceased  to 
strike  her  as  cheerful;  it  became,  as  it  were,  the 
expression  of  her  own  longing  and  craving;  she 
wondered  what  these  people  were  longing  after 
and  craving  for,  with  so  much  sadness  and  yearn- 
ing.    They  told  her,  in  the  words  of  the  hymn: 


CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE   265 

"  Take   all   my   sins   away, 
Take  all  my   sins   away ! " 

Something  seemed  to  cry  out  in  her  heart.  She 
forgot  the  tavern  across  the  road,  lost  all  craving 
for  drink,  and  remained  stunned  and  dazed, 
listening  to  this  faint  wailing  of  her  own  heart. 
It  was  as  if  some  magician  had  suddenly  swept 
everything  in  the  scene  away,  and  left  this  woman 
alone  in  the  midst  of  a  great  darkness  with  the 
noise  of  her  heart  whimpering  in  her  ears.  Again 
and  again  the  words  repeated  themselves: 

"Take  all   my   sins  away, 
Take  all   my   sins  away ! " 

A  longing,  deep  and  intense,  rose  out  of  the 
depths  of  her  heart.  It  was  a  longing  to  be  clean. 
She  knew  nothing  of  theology.  The  dogma  of 
the  Atonement  had  never  been  explained  to  her. 
She  was  not  even  acquainted  with  the  story  of 
Christ.  But  out  of  the  need  of  her  own  dying  soul 
there  rose  this  clamorous  longing  for  a  Saviour. 
On  the  muddied  kerb  of  the  street,  her  blood 
poisoned  with  alcohol,  her  brain  sodden  with  the 
fumes  of  this  poison,  her  will  paralysed,  her 
moral  sense  all  but  destroyed,  her  appearance 
shouting  to  all  mankind  that  she  had  long  sunk 
to  the  irretrievable  depths  of  degradation — this 
poor  creature  of  doorways  and  arches,  this  child 
of  the  Lane,  this  harried  servant  of  beer-houses, 


266   CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

this  depraved  and  befouled  drunkard,  felt  sud- 
denly and  passionately  in  her  heart  the  longing 
for  some  Power  greater  than  herself  to  save  her 
soul  from  death. 

The  words  of  the  hymn — "  Take  all  my  sins 
away !  " — had  opened  a  window  for  her,  which 
looked  on  heaven.  She  was  conscious  of  a  large 
and  ample  Spirit  in  the  universe  able  to  cleanse 
the  heart  and  restore  the  soul  even  of  such  as 
her.  She  was  convinced  of  a  Saviour,  without 
knowing  His  Name,  without  understanding  His 
place  in  theology.  Into  the  arms  of  this  Power 
she  surrendered  her  will  and  her  weakness,  and 
lay  there  with  one  cry  on  her  lips,  one  cry  which 
expressed  all  her  bitter  experience  of  life,  all  her 
knowledge  of  religion,  and  all  the  longing  of  her 
soul — 

"Take   all   my   sins   away, 
Take   all   my  sins   away ! " 

A  miracle  happened.  The  low  and  long- 
habituated  craving  for  alcohol  was  expelled  and 
cast  out  of  her  by  the  lofty  and  hitherto  in- 
experienced craving  for  holiness.  A  divine  pity 
descended  out  of  heaven  and  drew  her  then  and 
there  into  the  haven  of  miraculous  immunity. 
She  lost  the  least  wish  for  drink.  She  felt  an 
intense  longing  for  purity.  She  was  conscious 
of  new  birth. 

Her  phrase  to  the  Sister  was  very  simple  and 


CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE   267 

very  pathetic.  Perhaps  the  loving  tenderness  of 
that  young  saint,  and  the  brightness  of  her  in- 
nocent glad  face,  made  the  poor  penitent  woman 
who  had  been  so  miraculously  born  again,  sud- 
denly conscious  of  the  depths  to  which  she  had 
descended.  With  tears  in  her  eyes,  an  agony  on 
her  lips,  holding  the  Sister's  hands  tightly  in 
her  own,  she  cried,  "  Oh,  I  would  love  to  rise 
again !  " — and  this  phrase  she  repeated  again  and 
again. 

It  was  told  her  that  the  way  was  clear  ahead 
to  resurrection.  She  had  taken  the  first  step. 
God  had  heard  the  cry  of  her  soul.  Henceforth 
by  prayer  and  supplication  she  would  steadily 
advance  along  the  road,  every  step  of  which  was 
an  ascent,  until  she  stood  upon  the  heights. 

They  prayed  with  her,  ministered  to  her  needs, 
showed  her  love  and  sympathy,  kept  her  in  their 
care,  and  when  she  was  strong  enough  carried 
her  to  the  rescue-home  where  women  are  trained 
for  service. 

She  never  once  looked  back. 

From  the  moment  when  she  felt  that  sudden 
longing  to  be  cleansed  of  sin,  she  advanced  stead- 
fastly towards  purity  of  heart  and  nobility  of 
soul.  Religion,  from  the  outset,  was  wonderfully 
real  to  her.  A  very  little  teaching — because  it 
was  the  heart  they  were  educating — sufficed  to 
acquaint  her  with  the  knowledge  of  Christ.  She 
experienced   the   deepest   joy   in   receiving   this 


268  CLEANEST  THING  IN  THE  HOUSE 

knowledge.  Neither  pitying  herself  for  the  dep- 
rivations of  childhood,  nor  abusing  herself  for 
the  sins  of  her  womanhood,  she  contented  every 
thought  of  her  brain  and  every  aspiration  of 
her  heart  with  the  idea  of  Christ  as  the  Saviour 
of  sinners.  With  joy  she  did  the  work  that  was 
given  to  her,  with  pride  she  sought  to  satisfy 
those  in  authority  over  her,  and  every  day  you 
could  see  fresh  beauty  shining  in  her  face 
till  every  mark  and  vestige  of  depravity  was 
obliterated. 

She  is  now  in  domestic  service.  Nothing  has 
occurred  to  tempt  her  from  virtue.  The  aspira- 
tion, "  Oh,  I  would  love  to  rise  again!  "  has  been 
realised.    She  is  in  every  way  a  noble  soul. 

The  Sister  to  whom  she  uttered  that  aspira- 
tion at  the  street-corner  long  ago  went  the  other 
day  to  see  her  in  the  place  of  her  employment. 
She  was  telling  me  about  this  visit,  and  as  she 
spoke  her  face  became  bright  with  pleasure.  '  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  her,"  she  said;  "she 
is  really  splendid;  it  does  one  good  to  look  at 
her;  she  is  the  cleanest  thing  in  the  house." 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

IT  is  a  part  of  the  genius  of  the  West  London 
Mission  to  allow  a  wide  latitude  of  liberty 
to  its  workers.  When  a  lady  is  found  who 
desires  to  serve  in  the  Mission  as  a  Sister,  as  soon 
as  the  authorities  are  satisfied  that  she  is  in 
earnest,  possesses  tact,  and  is  moved  by  a  sym- 
pathy so  sincere  that  it  is  unerring  in  its  en- 
thusiasm, she  is  put  in  charge  of  a  district  and 
left  almost  entirely  free  to  administer  its  spiritual 
government.  Thus  it  is  that  you  may  meet 
among  these  good  Sisters  very  diverse  tempera- 
ments and  discover  in  their  methods  a  delightful 
freedom  from  sameness  and  a  quite  engaging 
tone  of  individuality;  and  it  is  this  diversity 
which  more  than  anything  else,  I  think,  marks 
the  true  catholicity  of  the  Christian  religion,  and 
brings  home  to  the  mind  the  miracle  of  the 
universal  attraction  of  the  Master. 

Sister  Agatha  stands  for  the  matronal  charac- 
ter of  Christianity.  She  is  a  towering  and  mas- 
sive woman,  with  the  deportment  of  a  dowager, 
the  pride  and  cheerfulness  of  a  happy  mother, 
and  all  that  brisk  sense  of  a  managing  and 
scrupulous  intelligence  which  we  associate  with 

269 


270  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

the  dame  of  a  store-cupboard.  She  has  a  broad 
and  benign  countenance,  "  a  thanksgiving  for 
her  former  life  and  a  love-letter  to  all  mankind  "; 
through  gold-rimmed  spectacles  she  beams  good- 
nature on  the  world,  and  there  is  a  ripple  of 
light  in  her  white  hair  which  seems  like  the 
symbol  of  a  halo;  it  must  be  a  dull  mind  or  a 
cold  heart  which  is  not  sensible  in  her  presence 
of  serenity  and  blessing. 

I  spoke  to  her  on  one  occasion  of  Sister  Mil- 
dred's work  in  Piccadilly  and  Regent  Street. 
At  once  a  shadow  fell  upon  the  luminous  face, 
the  soft  and  pleasant  skin  became  hard,  and  one 
saw  a  deep  and  poignant  pain  in  her  kind  eyes. 
"  That  is  work,"  she  said,  in  her  quiet  voice, 
"  which  I  could  not  do.  I  wish  I  could ;  but  I 
know  that  I  should  fail.  Sister  Mildred  goes 
with  a  bunch  of  flowers  where  I  want  to  go  with 
a  sword !  "  As  she  finished  her  eyes  shone,  the 
splendid  head  was  lifted,  and  there  was  almost  a 
ring  in  the  low  voice.  One  felt  the  spirit  of 
the  crusades. 

"  Sometimes,  when  X  am  walking  at  night 
through  the  streets  of  this  neighbourhood,  in 
Euston  Road,  for  instance,  I  see  sights  which 
fire  my  blood  with  indignation.  I  ought  to  feel 
pity  and  compassion;  I  know  I  am  wrong;  but 
the  feeling  of  shame  and  horror  is  uppermost. 
All  my  sympathies  go  out  to  the  young  men 
who  are  so  dreadfully  exposed  to  temptation. 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  271 

I  long  to  stop  them  and  remind  them  of  their 
mothers,  and  speak  to  them  of  the  ideals  of  a 
pure  womanhood.  All  I  can  do,  however,  is  to 
pray.  As  I  pass  them  in  the  lamplight,  I  raise 
my  helplessness  to  God :  '  O  God,'  I  pray,  '  give 
these  young  men  strength  to  withstand  tempta- 
tion.' Sister  Mildred  is  able  to  do  more  than 
that;  the  answers  to  her  prayer  come  through 
her  own  hands." 

You  will  gather  from  this  remark  that  Sister 
Agatha  is  something  of  a  warrior  for  God;  and 
the  first  story  I  have  to  tell  about  her  will  show 
how  boldly  and  how  nobly  she  can  fight  for 
righteousness.  But  it  is  necessary,  if  you  would 
possess  the  secret  of  her  nature,  to  know  that  a 
womanly  tenderness  and  a  matronly  kindness 
are  the  foundation  pillars  of  her  personality.  She 
is  what  I  think  may  be  called  a  true  daughter 
of  Victorian  Evangelicalism — a  righteous  and 
most  motherly  good  soul,  believing  all  dogmas 
and  doctrines  that  she  has  been  taught  in  child- 
hood, reading  her  Bible  piously  and  receptively 
for  a  blessing,  finding  comfort  in  prayer-meetings, 
refraining  from  all  things  which  have  the  appear- 
ance of  ungodliness,  execrating  evil  with  the  force 
of  an  entirely  wholesome  mind,  loathing  atheism 
and  agnosticism  with  a  shuddering  abhorrence, 
and  mothering  those  lost  souls  who  truly  turn  to 
God  with  a  most  tender  and  beautiful  affection. 


n%  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

I, 

The  Bookseller 

The  neighbourhood  in  which  Sister  Agatha 
lives  is  a  very  bad  one — so  bad  that,  although 
it  is  outside  the  bounds  proper  of  West  London, 
the  Mission  could  not  refrain  from  planting  its 
flag  there.  An  abject  poverty  and  an  odious 
ugliness  affront  the  gaze  at  every  turn.  One 
sees  nothing  but  dismal  houses,  broken-down 
shops,  littered  gutters,  slatternly  women,  dirty 
children,  and  ruffianly-looking  men.  There  is 
everywhere  a  stifling  odour  of  foul  clothing.  I 
have  seen  nothing  so  repellent  and  nauseating 
even  in  the  filthy  reservations  for  Red  Indians 
in  Canada. 

The  premises  occupied  by  Sister  Agatha  take 
the  form  of  a  coffee-tavern  and  club.  They  are 
fairly  commodious,  wonderfully  clean,  and  have 
an  air  of  struggling  brightness.  There  are  rooms 
for  men,  rooms  for  lads,  and  a  large  hall  where 
prayer-meetings,  magic-lantern  lectures,  and  re- 
ligious services  are  regularly  held.  At  a  harvest- 
festival  (imagine  a  harvest- festival  in  this  vil- 
lainous London  slum!)  the  hall  is  dazzling  with 
gifts  of  flowers,  vegetables,  and  fruit,  and 
crowded  with  the  wondering  Miserables  of  the 
neighbourhood. 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  273 

These  premises  stand  in  the  principal  market- 
street  of  the  locality,  where  there  are  shops  on 
either  side  of  the  road,  and  an  unbroken  line  of 
costermongers'  stalls  in  both  gutters.  The  pave- 
ments and  carriage-way  are  always  inconveniently 
crowded,  and  at  night  the  whole  long  street  is  a 
dense  and  seething  mass  of  deplorable  humanity. 

One  evening  Sister  Agatha  became  aware  of 
an  unusual  gathering  in  this  street.  It  was  a 
grinning  crowd  of  men  listening  to  the  witticisms 
of  a  cheap-jack,  and  the  cheap- jack  was  selling 
books  of  which  he  insinuated  a  prurient  vileness. 
The  crusading  temper  of  Sister  Agatha  was 
roused  into  action.  She  forced  her  way  into 
the  crowd  and  interrupted  the  blackguard.  "  Do 
not  buy  these  shameful  books,"  she  cried,  "  until 
you  have  heard  what  I  have  to  say.  Listen! 
If  in  this  market-place  men  were  selling  impure 
food  for  your  bodies,  I  would  feel  it  my  duty 
to  warn  you,  whatever  the  consequences  might 
be.  Here  is  a  man  who  would  poison  your 
souls!  Will  you  let  him?  Will  you  give  him 
money  for  what  will  corrupt  your  minds  and 
destroy  your  souls?  I  beg  you  not  to  do  so." 
You  can  picture  the  scene;  you  will  admire  the 
courage. 

Something  of  a  hubbub  ensued,  and  a  police- 
man appearing  at  this  moment,  the  seller  of  vile 
books  was  obliged  to  beat  a  retreat. 

A  few  months  later  Sister  Agatha  found  the 


274  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

man  one  evening  addressing  a  crowd  immediately 
outside  the  Mission  premises.  In  a  loud  voice 
he  proclaimed :  "  I  was  put  in  prison  for  selling 
these  books  I  am  now  offering  to  you.  And 
while  I  was  in  prison  they  gave  me  three  books 
to  read  in  my  cell — the  Bible,  a  Prayer-Book, 
and  a  hymn-book.  I  studied  those  books  care- 
fully to  see  where  they  beat  mine,  and  I  freely 
own  that  for  immorality  and  indecency  they  win 
hands  down.  But  why  aren't  the  people  who 
give  your  children  the  Bible  put  in  prison?  Do 
you  know  what  you  can  find  in  the  Bible  if  you 
read  it  carefully? — I  will  tell  you." 

Then  he  gave  a  mocking  and  derisive  account, 
sparing  no  details  and  employing  an  intention- 
ally coarse  vocabulary,  of  the  plague-spots  in 
human  life  recorded  in  the  ancient  Jewish  books. 
You  might  have  thought  to  hear  him  that  the 
Bible  contained  no  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  no 
Fifteenth  Chapter  of  St.  Luke,  no  Epistle  to  the 
Galatians,  and  that  the  Old  Testament  expressed 
no  longing  after  the  righteousness  of  an  Eternal 
God;  you  might  have  thought  that  the  whole 
Book  was  written  in  the  spirit  of  the  "  Decam- 
eron "  and  with  the  baseness  of  gutter  literature 
in  France. 

At  this  point  Sister  Agatha  appeared,  splendid 
and  terrible.  The  man  stopped  and  regarded 
her.  Then  he  bowed  and  said,  "  Madam,  if  you 
will  be   so  kind   as   not  to  interfere  with  my 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  275 

business,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  you."  There  was 
a  threat  in  the  words,  and  yet  a  hidden  fear. 
It  was  evident  to  the  Sister  that  he  had  been 
drinking  heavily.  She  looked  him  full  in  the 
face  and  said,  "  I  will  not  interrupt  you,  on  one 
condition — that  you  come  and  see  me  when  your 
work  is  done." 

While  she  stood  there  several  men  asked  her, 
"  Is  it  true,  Sister,  what  he  says  about  things 
in  the  Bible  ?  " 

"  It  is  true  and  false,"  she  answered,  and  the 
cheap- jack  glowered  at  her  with  increasing  rage. 
"  False,  because  he  doesn't  finish  by  telling  you 
how  against  the  evil  which  the  Old  Testament 
records  it  places  the  law  which  condemns  it. 
There  are  dreadful  things  in  medical  books,  but 
they  are  not  put  there  to  corrupt  the  mind.  Those 
books  are  written  for  the  purpose  of  curing 
disease,  removing  pain,  and  making  men  well. 
It  is  the  same  with  the  Bible.  The  Bible  is  the 
Book  of  Life.  Think  what  the  Bible  has  done 
for  the  human  race! — and  then  say  if  you  can 
mention  it  in  the  same  breath  with  these  wicked 
books." 

With  that  she  walked  away,  after  steadily 
meeting  the  frown  of  the  cheap- jack,  which  was 
full  of  menace. 

In  half  an  hour's  time  he  knocked  at  her  door. 
There  was  something  so  "  fiery  "  in  his  eyes,  she 
tells  me,  that  for  a  moment  she  was  seized  with 


276  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

a  sensation  almost  of  fear.  The  man  was  big, 
brutal,  truculent;  he  had  been  fortifying  his 
courage  and  feeding  his  rage  at  a  public-house; 
he  looked  capable  of  outrage. 

Sister  Agatha  admitted  him,  but  led  the  way 
to  a  room  where  her  assistant  was  sitting.  She 
motioned  the  man  to  be  seated;  he  remained 
on  his  feet,  the  heavy  head  lowered  like  a  bull 
that  would  charge.  "  I've  come  here,"  he  said, 
angrily,  "  to  tell  you  something  you  don't  know. 
I've  come  to  tell  you  that  you're  driving  me  to 
crime.  A  man  must  live !  What  right  have  you 
to  interfere  with  me?  Why  should  you  prevent 
me  from  gaining  a  livelihood  ?  It  is  hard  enough 
work,  without " 

She  interrupted  him.  "  Do  you  really  think," 
she  asked,  "  that  I  interfered  in  your  business 
to  prevent  you  from  earning  a  living?  You  know 
better  than  that.  I  interfered  to  prevent  you 
from  poisoning  the  minds  of  poor  people  and 
corrupting  their  souls."  She  drew  a  step  nearer 
to  him,  regarded  him  with  kinder  eyes,  and 
lowered  her  voice  to  the  gentle  tone  of  a  re- 
proach that  is  an  appeal.  "  Have  you  thought 
what  it  is  you  are  doing?"  she  asked.  "  Have 
you  seriously  contemplated  the  awful  mischief 
you  are  making?  We  are  here,  helping  people 
who  are  very  pitiful  and  destitute  to  be  pure  and 
holy,  trying  to  make  them  good  and  happy, 
labouring  day  and  night  to  save  the  souls  of 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  277 

wretched  men  and  sorrowful  women  who  have 
turned  away  from  God  and  are  living  in  sin  and 
misery;  and  it  is  among  these  sad  and  miserable 
people  that  you  come  with  those  dreadful  books, 
making  a  mock  of  religion,  making  their  minds 
more  impure  and  more  dark,  frustrating  our 
work,  which  is  so  difficult,  and  obstructing  the 
love  of  God !  " 

He  grew  calmer,  and  appeared  troubled.  He 
sat  down,  and  apparently  began  to  cast  about 
in  his  mind  for  a  reply.  But  the  Sister  con- 
tinued her  appeal. 

With  an  irresistible  sweetness  and  with  all 
the  loftiness  of  a  pure  mind  and  a  noble  purpose, 
she  appealed  to  the  man's  higher  nature  and 
implored  him  to  perceive  the  evil  of  his  work. 
It  was  the  mother  reproaching  the  tempter  of  her 
children.  She  had  sheltered  from  him  the  mul- 
titudinous children  whom  God  had  given  her  to 
mother,  because  she  knew  how  hard  it  was  for 
them  to  see  the  light,  how  difficult  for  them  to 
feel  the  attraction  of  purity,  how  easy  to  fall. 
Could  he  not  perceive  their  danger?  Could  he 
not  realise  her  difficulty?  Was  it  not  clear  to 
his  eyes  that  such  a  life  as  he  was  leading  was 
displeasing  to  God  and  full  of  terrible  hazard 
to  his  own  soul?  It  could  not  be  right  to  cor- 
rupt the  hearts  of  men  and  women.  It  could 
not  be  right  to  poison  their  souls.  It  could  not 
be  right  to  hinder  the  work  of  God. 


ns  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

Suddenly  the  man  bowed  his  head  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  You  are  right,  Sister,"  he  said,  with  broken 
speech  and  bitter  sobbing;  "  and  you  are  the  first 
one  to  speak  to  me,  and  check  me.  God  forgive 
me;  I  am  in  the  gutter,  and  I  can't  get  out." 

She  spoke  to  him  very  tenderly  and  encour- 
agingly. 

"  I  will  tell  you  this,"  he  said,  getting  control 
of  himself.  "  Those  books  are  rubbish.  There's 
nothing  in  them.  My  insinuations  are  far  worse 
than  anything  in  the  books  themselves.  You 
may  burn  them  all;  I'm  sick  of  them;  but  help 
me  to  get  an  honest  living." 

Then  he  told  her  his  story.  He  had  once  been 
in  regular  employment  as  a  printer,  earning 
good  wages,  and  never  worried  for  a  shilling. 
"  My  downfall  began  with  betting.  Every  man 
in  the  shop  where  I  worked  followed  racing. 
I  was  the  keenest  of  all.  I  lived  for  it.  There 
was  always  a  halfpenny  newspaper  in  my  pocket. 
I  couldn't  talk  of  anything  else.  It  was  a  mania. 
That  led  to  drinking.  The  swells  have  their 
clubs;  working-men  have  their  pubs.  It  was 
there  we  talked  horses,  got  tips,  heard  the  odds, 
and  learned  the  results  as  they  came  up  from 
the  course.  I  was  always  in  and  out  of  public- 
houses,  and  in  the  evening  spent  the  whole  of  my 
time  there.  Then  drink  got  such  a  hold  of  me 
that  I  was  good  for  nothing.    I  used  to  be  drunk 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  279 

in  the  morning;  my  hands  were  all  of  a  shake; 
and  my  head  was  so  fuzzy  that  I  couldn't  see 
straight.  Job  after  job  I  lost,  until  at  last  no 
one  would  employ  me.  Then  I  took  to  cadging, 
and  finally  I  got  to  this.  It  doesn't  pay;  it's  hard 
work;  and  I  loathe  it.  I've  always  wanted  to 
get  back,  but  now  you've  made  me  determined 
to  do  it.  Only,  how  can  I  start?  Who  will  take 
me?  Is  there  any  one  in  London  who'll  give 
me  a  second  chance  ?  ' 

"  The  first  step  for  you,"  she  said  quietly,  "  is 
plain,  and  it  can  be  taken  now.  If  you  are  in 
earnest,  you  will  have  no  hesitation  in  taking  it. 
You  must  sign  the  pledge,  and  you  must  pray 
to  God  for  strength  to  keep  it." 

"Yes,"  he  said  promptly;  "I'll  do  that.  I'll 
sign  the  pledge  for  a  start,  and  then  I'll  go  away, 
and  I'll  come  back  to  you  when  I'm  sober." 

She  had  no  great  hopes  of  this  broken  man, 
and  it  was  with  astonishment  that  she  saw  him 
some  days  later  standing  at  the  door  of  the  Mis- 
sion hall,  waiting  for  her.  He  was  sober.  The 
scowling  fierceness  had  gone  out  of  his  manner. 
He  had  made  an  attempt  at  brightening  up  his 
shabby  clothes. 

In  this  interview  he  told  her  the  full  story 
of  his  life,  which  was  a  tragedy  dark  and  sordid 
enough  to  depress  the  soul  of  an  angel.  Then 
he  spoke  of  the  change  which  had  come  over 
him.     "  Signing  the  pledge  has  done  a  lot  for 


280  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

me,  but  what  you  said  has  gone  deeper  into  my 
life.  I  feel  now  that  come  what  may  I  must 
make  a  fight  for  my  soul.  I  want  to  be  a  good 
man.  I  want  to  be  what  I  never  was,  but  what 
I  might  have  been  long  ago  and  without  much 
trouble  if  I  had  only  felt  as  I  feel  now." 

He  did  not  ask  her  this  time  to  help  him  to 
find  work.  He  seemed  to  have  recovered  his 
self-respect  and  something  of  the  independence 
of  manhood.  He  said  that  he  was  not  afraid 
of  the  future,  that  he  would  take  his  chance  as 
to  that.  It  was  about  the  beginnings  of  a  new 
birth  that  he  wanted  to  speak,  of  the  self-knowl- 
edge she  had  brought  to  his  soul. 

Then  he  said  to  her,  "  I  want  you  to  give  me 
a  Bible.  Will  you  do  that?  I  want  one,  and  I 
should  like  it  to  come  from  you." 

She  could  not  give  him  money,  and  the  only 
Bible  she  possessed  was  one  that  she  had  kept 
at  her  side  for  many  years,  which  was  dear  to 
her  with  the  memory  of  a  thousand  consolations, 
and  consecrated  by  the  thankfulness  of  the  pure 
spirit  which  it  had  so  constantly  illuminated. 
This  little  Pocket  Bible,  so  old,  so  worn,  so 
sacred,  and  so  loved,  was  marked  throughout  its 
pages  by  her  hand;  it  chronicled  occasions  when 
a  certain  passage  had  darted  new  meaning  into 
her  mind,  or  when  a  text  or  parable  read  aloud 
to  some  poor  seeking  soul  had  brought  the  light 
of  heaven  to  earth.     You  can  imagine  how  dear 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  281 

to  her  was  this  companion  of  her  service,  this 
record  of  her  ministration. 

And  yet  some  impulse  moved  her  to  give  it 
up,  to  surrender  it,  to  give  it  even  to  this  rough, 
unlovely  soul  who  but  a  few  days  ago  had  mocked 
it  and  blasphemed  it,  with  his  hands  full  of  per- 
nicious vileness. 

He  took  the  book,  knowing  nothing  of  her 
sacrifice,  and  said,  "  I'll  read  it  and  speak  about 
it  to  others,  not  as  I  spoke  in  the  street  outside, 
but  of  its  judgment  on  sin,  and  the  promise  of 
God's  forgiveness. " 

With  that  he  left  her,  and  she  watched  him 
go,  her  Bible  in  his  hand,  with  something  like 
pain  in  her  heart  but  with  a  prayer  on  her 
lips. 

Never  again  did  she  speak  to  him;  but  she 
heard  of  him  once,  and  on  one  occasion  saw  him. 
He  was  then  standing  in  the  gutters  of  a  market 
street  selling  harmless  things  from  a  tray,  and 
the  neatness  of  his  dress  and  the  respectability 
of  his  appearance,  gave  her  hope  that  he  had 
kept  his  pledge.  When  she  heard  of  him  again, 
it  was  from  some  one  who  had  seen  him  at  a 
Sunday  service  of  the  West  London  Mission. 

From  that  day  she  has  seen  or  heard  nothing 
of  him.  He  disappeared  in  the  great  tide  of 
London  life,  whether  for  good  or  for  evil  she 
does  not  know.  Who  can  tell,  she  often  thinks, 
what  my  Pocket  Bible  has  done  for  him,  and  for 


282  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

others?  Somewhere  in  London  it  is  some  one's 
companion,  and  perhaps  there  are  new  markings 
on  its  pages. 

II 

Transfigured 

I  was  sitting  with  Sister  Agatha  one  day  in 
her  Mission  hall  when  a  man  entered  and  greeted 
her  so  warmly  and  affectionately  that  I  was 
moved  to  curiosity.  He  was  a  grey-headed 
workman,  dressed  in  his  best  clothes,  washed 
and  brushed,  with  that  precise  look  and  conscious 
pride  in  discipline  which  marked  the  best  soldiers 
of  the  old  English  Army  whose  last  representa- 
tives are  seen  upright  on  the  steps  of  clubs  or 
nodding  to  sleep  in  the  gardens  of  Chelsea 
Hospital. 

This  fine  fellow,  so  typical  of  the  best  London 
workman,  had  suffered  and  fallen  and  risen 
again.  His  story,  which  I  learned  partly  from 
him  and  partly  from  Sister  Agatha,  is  a  story 
which  witnesses  in  a  wonderful  manner  to  the 
amazing  power  of  conversion.  It  must  be  a  great 
man  of  whom  Sister  Agatha  can  say,  her  eyes 
shining  with  love  behind  their  spectacles,  "  He 
is  the  brightest  proof  of  God's  grace  that  I  have 
ever  seen." 

After  his  retirement  from  the  Army  he  earned 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  283 

his  living  in  London  as  a  painter.  He  was  a 
fairly  sober  and  a  very  industrious  man,  married 
and  with  several  children.  He  lived  entirely 
without  religion,  and  spent  his  leisure  in  a  slouch- 
ing ease,  utterly  uninterested  in  life  and  careless 
of    anything    beyond    the    street    in    which    he 

lived. 

The  death  of  his  wife  gave  him  a  decided 
impulse  towards  evil.  The  trouble  of  a  large 
family,  the  emptiness  of  his  life,  the  dulness  of 
existence,  drove  him  to  drink.  He  was  one  of 
those  men  who  cannot  support  the  ennui  of  their 
own  vacuity,  who  seek  to  escape  from  the  bore- 
dom of  their  own  unemployed  intelligence,  who 
find  in  drink  oblivion  and  a  certain  mounting 
upwards  into  fields  of  higher  consciousness. 

He  became  so  completely  a  drunkard  that  his 
children  were  brought  to  the  edge  of  starvation. 
The  scandal  of  their  condition  resulted  in  an 
application  to  Sister  Agatha.  They  were  taken 
away  from  him,  and  he  was  made  to  contribute 
to  their  expense.  In  this  way  the  fierce  drunkard 
and  the  benign  Sister  came  into  conjunction.  He 
had  to  visit  her  in  order  to  pay  the  weekly  money 
for  his  children's  support. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  sight  of  you, 
Mr.  Taylor,"  says  Sister  Agatha,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  was  shocking  to  look  at,"  he  agrees. 

"  If  I  may  say  so,  Mr.  Taylor " 

"  Oh,  you  may  say  anything,  Sister.    God  bless 


284  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

you !  Nothing  that  you  say  will  be  anything  but 
truth." 

"  I  want  to  say  it,  because  the  change  is  so 
wonderful."  She  turns  to  me.  "  The  word  I 
feel  I  must  use  is  e  repulsive/  I  don't  think  I  ever 
saw  in  my  life  an  expression  of  the  human  face 
more  repulsive  than  Mr.  Taylor's  in  those  terrible 
days.  We  all  felt  the  same.  There  was  in  his 
face  something  that  repulsed  sympathy  and  made 
the  heart  shudder.  We  did  not  so  much  fear 
him,  or  dislike  him,  as  feel  this  extraordinary 
repulsion — as  if  he  were  inhuman.  Do  you  re- 
member, Mr.  Taylor,"  she  inquires,  with  a  clear- 
ing face,  "  how  we  used  to  try  and  avoid  you? ' 

"  Ah,  Sister,  I  remember  it  well.  And  I  know 
that  what  you  say  is  true.  Sometimes  when  I 
caught  sight  of  my  own  face  I  used  to  feel  that 
I  had  better  kill  myself  before  I  got  worse  than 
I  was." 

He  came  to  such  misery  that  he  did  at  last 
contemplate  suicide.  He  was  torn  between  two 
disgusts.  On  the  one  hand  was  his  increasing 
craving  for  drink,  which  his  wages  were  not 
enough  to  satisfy;  and  on  the  other  his  increas- 
ing consciousness  of  degradation,  which  his  will 
was  not  strong  enough  to  overcome.  In  abject 
misery  he  got  hold  of  a  razor,  and  went  back  to 
his  foul  lodging  to  make  an  end  of  himself. 

He  had  opened  the  blade  and  the  sweat  was 
bursting    from   his    forehead,    when   something 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  285 

stopped  him.  He  does  not  know  what  it  was. 
Something  definitely  interposed  between  him  and 
his  purpose.  He  felt  himself  opposed  and  inter- 
rupted. But  of  what  nature  this  interference 
was,  or  from  whence  it  proceeded,  he  could  not 

say. 

It  came  to  him  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his 
bed,  the  razor  still  in  his  hand,  that  his  soul  was 
in  a  terrible  peril.  He  felt  that  he  must  save 
himself  from  some  colossal  terror. 

The  idea  of  rescuing  himself  associated  itself 
in  his  mind  with  religion,  and  when  he  thought 
of  religion  he  thought  of  Sister  Agatha. 

Now,  although  his  heart  was  on  fire  for  salva- 
tion, he  yet  could  not  prevent  himself  from  show- 
ing a  surly  and  scowling  face  to  the  Sister.  He 
complained  of  his  life,  masked  his  real  feelings, 
inquired  about  religion  as  though  he  were  con- 
ferring a  favour  and  stooping  his  intelligence  to 
something  trivial.  "  He  was  complaining  and 
unattractive,"  says  Sister  Agatha  regretfully. 

He  attended  the  services,  came  to  see  Sister 
Agatha,  haunted  the  Mission  premises.  It  is 
pathetic  to  think  of  this  man  with  the  repulsive 
face  and  surly  manner  hanging  about  that  place 
with  a  heart  hungering  and  thirsting  for  a  new 
life,  and  yet  with  so  repellent  a  manner  and  so 
unattractive  an  appearance  that  he  inspired  no 
love  and  awoke  no  pity. 

Sister  Agatha  would  speak  to  him,  would  tell 


286  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

him  all  she  knew  of  religion — so  far  as  he  would 
let  her — and  on  many  occasions  she  sought  to 
break  down  the  rough  and  brutal  barrier  which 
he  seemed  to  oppose  between  his  soul  and  hers; 
but  it  was  heartbreaking  work ;  she  was  busy  and 
the  man  became  a  bore. 

One  day  she  was  just  going  out  on  her  rounds 
when  her  assistant  came  and  said  to  her,  "  Mr. 
Taylor  is  here ;  he  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  bother  Mr.  Taylor !  "  she  exclaimed. 

She  went  to  the  door  of  her  room,  which  was 
on  the  first  floor,  and  was  just  going  to  tell  her 
assistant  to  get  rid  of  the  man,  when  he  sprang 
half-way  up  the  stairs,  his  face  shining  and  trans- 
figured. "  Sister,  I  won't  detain  you/'  he  said, 
in  a  new  voice ;  "  I  only  wanted  to  tell  you  what 
has  happened.  The  light  has  come.  Last  night 
I  gave  my  heart  to  God — to-day  my  tools  have 
been  wet  with  my  tears — but  they  are  joy  tears 
now,  for  I  know  that  all  the  past  is  forgiven." 

The  change  was  so  remarkable  that  Sister 
Agatha  could  scarcely  believe  her  eyes.  She 
heard  what  the  man  said,  but  her  mind  was  dazed 
by  the  look  in  his  face.  It  was  not  the  same 
man.     The  very  features  were  changed. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that  moment,  and  neither 
will  you,  Mr.  Taylor !  "  she  exclaims,  with  loving 
remembrance.  "We  prayed  together,  and  we 
were  very  happy,  were  we  not?  It  was  a  true 
case  of  '  Once  I  was  blind,  now  I  see/    The  light 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  287 

came  suddenly,  in  a  moment,  and  all  was 
changed."  She  turns  to  me.  "  His  face  was 
transfigured.    It  was  shining/' 

He  told  me  that  in  the  loneliness  of  his  own 
room  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  sinful  and 
wretched  life,  and  feeling  how  impossible  it  was 
for  him  ever  to  be  a  different  man,  when  all  of 
a  sudden,  just  like  a  voice  in  his  soul,  he  heard 
the  announcement  that  Christ  alone  can  take  away 
the  sins  of  a  man.  In  a  flash  he  saw  that  he  had 
nothing  to  do  but  surrender :  that  he  was  not  to 
strive,  but  to  be  grateful:  that  God  was  only 
asking  him  to  believe,  not  to  struggle,  not  to 
build  up  the  ruins  of  his  life. 

I  simply  gave  myself  to  God,"  he  said  quietly. 

I  don't  know  how  else  to  put  it.  I  surrendered, 
laid  down  my  arms,  and  felt  all  through  my  soul 
that  I  was  pardoned  and  restored." 

That  is  nine  years  ago.  For  nine  years  this 
man  has  not  only  been  immune  from  drink,  has 
not  only  made  a  comfortable  home  for  his  chil- 
dren, has  not  only  been  a  first-rate  workman  and 
a  good  citizen,  but  throughout  those  nine  years 
he  has  been,  in  Sister  Agatha's  phrase,  "  a  worker 
for  Christ,  beloved  by  all,  and  a  hiding-place  for 
many." 

If  you  could  see  the  brightness  of  his  face  and 
feel  the  overflowing  happiness  of  his  heart,  you 
would  better  realise  the  miracle  of  conversion. 
The  man  is  a  living  joy. 


288  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

III 
The  Little  Lion 

However  profound  the  change  produced  by 
conversion,  however  complete  and  miraculous  the 
revolution  of  new  birth,  the  individual  note  of 
the  disposition  preserves  its  tone.  A  man  may 
alter  every  one  of  his  habits  and  may  become 
literally  transfigured  in  appearance,  but  there 
will  remain  with  him  that  total  impression  of 
personality,  that  deep  and  inward  undercurrent 
of  character,  by  which  his  friends  have  always 
known  him. 

One  of  Sister  Agatha's  devoted  disciples  was 
a  droll  and  waggish  little  Cockney  before  his 
conversion,  and  he  remains  a  droll  and  waggish 
little  Cockney  years  after  the  great  hour  of  new 
birth  and  the  exalting  experience  of  illumination. 
The  man  is  entirely  different  in  every  other  re- 
spect. You  might  say  of  him  that  the  old  heart 
has  been  removed  from  his  body  and  a  new  heart 
put  in  its  place.  You  might  say  that  his  char- 
acter has  been  not  so  much  improved,  or  revolu- 
tionised, as  substituted  by  another.  And  yet  the 
men  who  knew  him  in  the  old  days  could  not  fail 
to  know  him  now.  The  quizzical  look  is  still  in 
his  eyes,  the  ripple  of  laughter  still  in  his  voice, 
and  he  cannot  help  himself  from  regarding  life 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  289 

even  in  his  new  condition  with  the  same  spirit  of 
amusement  as  diverted  him  in  days  of  darkness 
and  debauchery. 

The  foreground  of  existence  remains  the 
same;  the  change  wrought  by  conversion  is 
in  that  "  curious  sense  of  the  whole  residual 
.cosmos  as  an  everlasting  presence,  intimate  or 
alien,  terrible  or  amusing,  lovable  or  odious,  which 
in  some  degree  every  one  possesses  '  (William 
James,  The  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience) . 

Born  in  wretched  circumstances,  stunted  in 
growth,  and  with  only  the  animal  intelligence 
of  his  brain  quickened  into  activity,  this  man  of 
whom  I  write,  growing  up  with  all  the  colour 
of  his  surrounding  squalor  in  his  soul  and  with 
all  the  fierce  cries  of  a  brutal  neighbourhood 
ringing  a  kind  of  martial  music  in  his  brain, 
reached  a  manhood  that  was  belligerent,  quarrel- 
some, and  cruel.  Although  he  was  so  brief  in 
stature  as  to  be  little  more  than  a  dwarf,  he 
was  yet  so  perfect  in  his  parvitude,  so  herculean 
in  his  scale,  so  fearless  and  pugnacious  in  his 
disposition,  that  he  was  like  an  Iliad  in  duo- 
decimo or  an  eagle  of  the  bantam  yard.  "  I 
was  like  a  little  lion,"  he  said  to  me. 

Sharp  as  a  pin,  quick  as  a  trigger,  and  singing 
like  a  kettle  with  his  overcharge  of  physical 
energy,  this  little  lion  of  the  London  gutters 
went  about  seeking  whom  he  might  devour.  No 
day  was  satisfactory  to  his  mind  which  had  not 


290  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

been  marked  by  a  battle.  His  sense  of  touch 
craved  for  the  feel  of  yielding  flesh  and  col- 
lapsing cartilage,  his  sense  of  colour  demanded 
a  scarlet-spilling  nose,  his  sense  of  hearing  could 
not  be  satisfied  with  anything  but  the  thud  of 
knuckles  and  the  heave  of  exhausted  breath.  He 
loved  fighting  as  another  man  loves  music  or 
postage  stamps.  He  gloried  in  his  squatness  be- 
cause of  its  temptation.  He  sought  battle  under 
the  mask  of  his  epitome,  and  never  took  off  his 
coat  and  disclosed  his  sinews  till  it  was  too  late 
for  the  other  man  to  draw  back.  The  sweetest 
of  all  adventures  was  to  encounter  a  man  bigger 
than  himself  but  not  so  powerful  or  quick,  and 
the  sweetest  of  all  human  words  was  the  familiar 
cry  of  a  London  crowd,  "  Go  it,  little  'un!  " 

He  haunted  public-houses  because  it  is  in  drink 
that  blows  come  quickest.  Alcohol,  which  is 
said  to  make  glad  the  heart  of  man,  also  has  the 
property  of  making  blue  his  nose  and,  indirectly, 
black  his  eye.  He  is  a  poor  creature  who  can- 
not in  the  bar  of  a  four-ale  public-house  make  a 
pot  the  bridge  to  a  fight. 

As  years  advanced  the  reputation  of  this  little 
lion  became  so  firmly  established  that  the  popu- 
lation of  his  neighbourhood  began  to  regard 
him  as  a  general  nuisance.  Peace-loving  men, 
who  went  to  the  tavern  for  a  quiet  pipe,  a 
friendly  pot,  and  the  satisfaction  of  open-hearted 
conversation,    resented   the   perpetual   bellowing 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  291 

of  the  little  lion  and  objected  to  the  everlasting 
lashing  of  his  tail.  Instead  of  forming  a 
cheerful  ring  round  him,  and  calling  out  "  Go 
it,  little  'un ! "  these  false  friends  began  to  turn 
their  backs  upon  him  when  he  strutted  into  their 
midst,  and  to  talk  over  his  head  to  their  neigh- 
bours when  he  addressed  a  remark  to  them. 
Touched  to  the  heart  by  this  disaffection,  the 
little  lion  took  to  drink,  and  over  his  drink 
made  mock  of  the  general  company.  He  was 
a  painter,  like  the  man  in  the  last  story,  and 
could  earn  good  wages.  He  was  never  without 
money  for  drink.  At  last  he  became  a 
drunkard.  One  day  when  he  was  painting 
a  lamp-post  on  Waterloo  Bridge,  being  stupidly 
drunk  at  the  time,  he  fell  from  the  ladder  and 
came  with  a  shattering  concussion  on  the  pave- 
ment. For  some  weeks  he  was  in  hospital,  and 
when  he  returned  to  civil  life  it  was  with  all  the 
lion  taken  out  of  him. 

He  drank  now,  not  for  comfort,  but  for 
delusion.  Drink  was  the  magic  that  trans- 
formed him  from  a  broken-down,  trembling,  red- 
nosed  little  painter  into  the  majestic  Lilliputian 
of  his  leonine  period.  When  he  was  drunk 
he  felt  himself  capable  of  fighting  the  whole 
human  race. 

"  Was  it  a  craving  with  you?  "  I  inquired. 

He  pondered  the  word,  turned  it  over  uncer- 
tainly and  rather  disgust  fully  on  his  tongue,  and 


292  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

with  down-pressed  cogitating  lips,  shook  his  head. 
"  No,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "  I  shouldn't  have 
said  it  was  a  crave."  His  face  brightened.  "  I 
didn't  feel  I  should  die  without  it,  but  I  had  to  be 
where  it  was/'     That  explained  his  condition. 

In  all  his  misery  he  had  a  little  son,  the  ex- 
press image  of  himself,  who  watched  over  him 
with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman.  It  was  this 
midge  of  humanity  who  came  to  fetch  him  from 
the  public-house,  who  guided  him  through  the 
streets,  who  steered  him  clear  of  policemen,  and 
helped  him  up  the  stairs  of  his  tenement.  "  Lean 
on  me,  dad,"  he  would  speak;  "I'm  terrible 
strong,  I  am." 

Sometimes  father  and  son  would  speak  to- 
gether. "  I  wish  I  could  give  up  the  drink, 
sonny."  "Why  don't  you  try?"  "I  have." 
"And  you  can't?"  "It  don't  look  like  it,  do 
it?"  "/  would,  if  I  was  you."  "So  would  I 
if  I  was  somebody  else."  "  Look  what  a  lot 
more  money  you'd  have."  "  I've  thought  of 
that."  "We  could  enjoy  ourselves,  couldn't 
we  ?  "  "  I'll  have  another  shot."  "  Bert's  father 
signed  the  pledge;  he  says  it  did  the  trick  for 
him."     "I  could  not  knock  his  face  in!" 

It  was  through  his  affection  for  the  son  who 
watched  over  him  that  the  little  lion  at  last  set 
himself  to  overcome  his  failing.  He  did  not 
sign  the  pledge,  whether  out  of  contempt  for 
Bert's  father  or  not  is  unrecorded,  but  he  struck 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  893 

a  step  higher,  and  went  straight  to  religion. 
Sister  Agatha's  open-air  services  in  the  market- 
street  had  often  caught  his  attention;  he  knew 
that  religion  dealt  with  the  soul;  he  had  a  feel- 
ing that  what  he  wanted  was  not  a  pledge-card 
nor  a  blue-ribbon  in  his  coat,  but  an  entirely  new 
rig-out  in  the  spiritual  line,  and  religion  was  the 
shop  for  that. 

"  So  I  went  to  these  'ere  services,"  he  says, 
"  and  I  thought  the  singing  might  have  been  a 
little  more  lively,  and  the  praying  a  little  more 
something  that  I  could  understand;  but  Sister 
Agatha  took  my  fancy  from  the  very  first. 
There's  a  lady!  I  thought;  a  real  lady.  Not  a 
fashion-plate,  but  an  angel — one  of  the  big  mar- 
ried ones !  Lor,  what  a  little  chap  I  felt  looking 
up  into  her  big  sweet  face !  " 

He  came  regularly  to  these  services  and  at  last 
began  to  frequent  the  Mission  hall.  But  drink 
was  a  habit.  He  had  to  be  where  it  was.  And 
sometimes  he  was  drunk. 

Nevertheless  he  still  clung  to  his  first  idea 
that  religion  was  the  way  of  escape,  and  only 
dimly  comprehending  the  idea  of  God,  and  only 
vaguely  feeling  the  idea  of  Christ,  he  prayed 
often — prayed  as  he  walked  along  the  street, 
prayed  and  sweated  as  he  passed  a  public-house, 
prayed  as  he  worked,  and  prayed  in  his  home. 
Into  the  universe  he  breathed  the  cry  from  his 
poor  little  Cockney  heart  that  a  strength  which 


294*  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

he  had  never  known  and  could  not  understand, 
might  be  given  to  his  will,  that  what  he  had 
been  might  be  forgiven,  that  what  he  desired 
to  become,  so  earnestly  and  yet  so  stumblingly, 
might  by  the  grace  of  God  be  accomplished. 

When  he  fell,  so  full  was  his  heart  with  shame 
that  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  enter  the 
Mission  hall.  "  This  was  a  new  feeling  for  me," 
he  said;  "and  it  made  me  think.  I  had  never 
found  my  master  before."  He  began  to  see  that 
he  was  in  for  the  greatest  fight  of  his  life. 

One  day  his  wife  came  to  Sister  Agatha  with 
grief  and  despair  in  her  poor  eyes.  The  little 
lion  had  got  drunk,  had  made  war  upon  the 
police,  had  been  taken  before  the  magistrate, 
had  been  sentenced  to  fourteen  days'  imprison- 
ment. 

Prison  made  him  hate  himself,  and  made  him 
determined  to  throw  up  the  sponge.  He  would 
make  no  more  pretence  of  being  good;  he  would 
live  like  the  rest ;  he  would  drink  when  he  wanted 
to,  fight  when  he  felt  inclined,  and  used  the 
Name  of  God  only  to  round  off  an  oath. 

As  he  stepped  through  the  prison  gateway  he 
saw  two  women  waiting  for  him.  One  was  his 
wife,  the  other  was  Sister  Agatha. 

"  You've  done  me,"  he  said.  "  If  you  hadn't 
met  me  here,  I'd  never  have  looked  at  the  hall 

again.     I  couldn't  have.     But  now Well, 

Sister,  it's  all  up.     You've  done  me." 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  295 

It  was  this  loving  action  of  the  Sister — her 
tenderness  and  loving-kindness  in  his  disgrace, 
her  unswerving  faith  in  his  rectitude  when  he 
had  fallen;  her  exquisite  sympathy  and  encour- 
agement when  his  heart  was  overfull  with  bit- 
terness and  resentment,  that  brought  illumina- 
tion to  the  soul  of  the  little  lion.  It  made  him 
feel  the  reality  of  Christ.  He  saw  the  character 
and  nature  of  religion.  He  was  conscious  of 
love. 

From  that  day  he  never  fell.  His  victory  over 
drink  was  complete ;  his  progress  in  the  knowledge 
of  Christian  revelation  was  sure  and  unbroken. 

"  He  used  to  come  to  my  Bible  Class,"  said 
Sister  Agatha,  "  and  we  would  choose  a  text,  and 
all  the  men  present  would  speak  about  it  in  turn; 
do  you  remember,  Mr.  Burton  ?" 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile  at  me,  "  I 
can  remember  that  the  speaking  began  with  Sis- 
ter Agatha,  but  I  don't  seem  to  remember  that  it 
ever  came  round  to  me !  " 

"That  is  his  way!"  says  Sister  Agatha, 
bubbling  with  soft  laughter. 

While  he  was  attending  the  Bible  Class, 
Sister  Agatha  was  taken  ill.  She  left  the 
district  for  the  time  being,  and  went  to  the 
headquarters  of  the  Mission.  One  day  he  came 
to  see  her.  "  I  came  yesterday,"  he  said,  "  but 
the  big  white  step  frightened  me.  I  could 
manage  the  little  one  at  the  hall  right  enough, 


296  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

I  could  step  over  him;  but  this  was  too  much 
for  me  the  first  time  I  saw  it.  I  had  to  give  it 
up."  Later  he  came  with  a  basket  of  new-laid 
eggs;  they  were  marked  with  his  wife's  love 
and  bore  the  date  of  their  laying.  He  said  that 
his  home  was  happy,  that  life  seemed  quite  differ- 
ent to  him;  there  was  brightness  in  his  face,  and 
a  new  quietness  in  his  voice.  The  man  was  full 
of  serenity. 

One  day  he  came  to  see  her  when  she  was 
out  visiting.  He  followed  to  the  buildings 
where  she  was  engaged  and  waited  for  her. 
They  walked  away  together.  Near  St.  Pancras 
Station  they  stopped  to  say  good-bye.  There 
was  a  solemn,  Sister  Agatha  says  a  kingly, 
expression  in  his  eyes,  as  he  said,  "  I  want  to 
say  one  thing  before  I  go  home.  I  want  to 
ask  you  to  remember,  among  all  the  disappoint- 
ments of  your  work,  that  there  is  one  man  who 
by  the  grace  of  God  will  never  go  back  to  his 
old  life.,, 

That  is  nine  years  ago.  Never  once  has  he 
gone  back  to  drink;  never  once  has  he  had  a 
fight;  always  he  has  been  a  devout  and  humble 
Christian.  He  has  moved  to  one  of  the  outer 
suburbs  of  London,  where  his  children  feel  them- 
selves in  heaven,  and  where  he  can  grow  flowers 
and  keep  chickens  and  rabbits  in  his  garden. 
"  It's  very  nice  down  there,"  he  told  me.  '  Some 
of  my  mates  say  to  me,  '  What,  Bill !  don't  your 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  297 

old  woman  never  give  you  no  beer  money  ?  '  '  Oh, 
yes,'  I  answer,  '  shillings  and  shillings.'  Then 
I  say  to  them,  '  Here,  where's  your  last  week's 
beer  money  ?  Where's  it  gone  ?  What  have  you 
got  to  show  for  it  ?  '  They  don't  like  that !  I 
tell  'em,  particularly  on  a  bright  sunny  morning, 
when  a  chap  can't  help  wishing  he  was  in  the 
country,  ' 1  was  looking  at  my  beer  money  this 
morning,'  I  says;  'lor,  it  has  grown!  some  of  it 
has  got  roses  on  it,  and  dahlias,  and  chrysanthe- 
mums, and  Michaelmas  daisies;  some  of  it  has 
got  feathers  on  it  and  wakes  me  crowing;  some 
of  it  hops  about  with  fur  on  it;  you  never  saw 
such  beer  money  in  your  life — smells  of  roses, 
cackles  with  egg-laying,  and  tastes  of  rabbit! 
By  the  way,  how  is  your  beer  money  looking 
this  nice  autumn  morning?  '  I  always  speak  like 
that  to  them  when  it's  public;  it's  not  a  bit  of 
use  talking  serious  to  a  lot  of  fellows  who  don't 
care  for  anything  but  the  booze;  of  course,  I 
speak  differently  to  a  chap  who  asks  me  on  the 
quiet  what  I  think  of  religion.  I  tell  him  straight 
what  I  think,  and  advise  him  to  get  right  with 
God.  Of  course,  I  have  to  stand  a  bit  of  chaff. 
Some  of  my  mates  will  make  a  ring  round  me 
and  say,  '  Here,  Bill,  you're  a  Christian  man;  tell 
us  all  about  it  ?  '  '  What  would  be  the  use  ?  '  I 
answer;  '  it  isn't  eternal  life  you  want,  it's  beer.' 
Once  or  twice  they've  put  up  a  chap  to  make  me 
look  small — one  of  the  talkers,  who  read  atheist 


298  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

books.     '  Kow  do  you  explain  this,  and  what  do 
you  make  of  that  ?  '  he  asks.     '  I  don't  know ;  I'm 
not  clever  enough,'  I  answer.     '  You  believe  in 
something  you  don't  understand ! '  they  all  laugh. 
'Yes,  mates/  I  say,  'that's  perfectly  true;  I  do 
not  understand  it.     But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  do 
know.     I  know  what  religion  has  done  for  me. 
Hold  on  a  minute.     My  children  have  got  boots 
on  their  feet;  have  yours?     My  missus  is  glad  to 
see  me  come  home,  my  garden  has  got  flowers 
in  it,  on  a  Bank  Holiday  we  go  to  the  seaside, 
when  a  friend  is  up  a  tree  we  can  help  him, 
when  I'm  out  of  work  we've  got  bread;  can  you 
say  the  same?     I  know  what  I  was;  I  know  what 
I  am;  and  I  know  how  the  change  was  made. 
That's  enough  for  me.'     I  don't  say  I  convert  any 
of  them ;  I'm  not  good  enough  for  that ;  but  I've 
made  a  few  of  them  think  about  the  drink.   Take 
it  from  me,  all  the  misery  of  the  working-classes 
comes  through  drink ;  first  and  last,  it's  the  public- 
house  that  causes  all  the  mischief.     Get  rid  of 
drink  and  you'd  have  a  new  nation — a  happy  na- 
tion,  a  strong  nation,   and  a  religious  nation. 
But    I'm    talking.     Sister    Agatha,    your    turn 
now!" 

On  the  anniversary  of  this  man's  conversion, 
a  letter  comes  every  year  from  the  outer  suburb 
to  the  slum  where  Sister  Agatha  saved  him  and 
is  still  saving  others,  and  a  letter  from  Sister 
Agatha  reaches  him  in  his  happy  home  on  the 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  299 

same  morning.     They  give  thanks  to  God  for 
His  great  mercy. 


It  would  be  a  pleasant  diversion  and  a  really 
formative  experience,  if  men  and  women  of 
leisure  would  give  an  afternoon  every  week  to 
visiting  such  people  as  Sister  Agatha,  Sister 
Mildred,  Sister  Marjorie,  and  Mrs.  Price  Hughes 
— people  who  are  living  the  most  romantic  and 
useful  lives  of  all  the  myriads  in  London — and 
to  making  themselves  acquainted  with  the  work 
of  Christianity  in  action. 

So  much  can  be  done  by  such  a  little  expend- 
iture of  sympathy.  Since  the  coming  of  Sister 
Agatha,  the  slum  where  she  works  has  made  an 
effort  to  cover  its  ugliness.  She  has  taught  peo- 
ple the  joy  of  flowers,  and  you  will  see  here  and 
there  window-boxes  of  geraniums,  like  the  shrines 
of  saints  in  Latin  countries.  Gifts  of  flowers 
are  brought  by  these  people  to  .the  harvest- 
festival.  There  is  quite  a  movement  towards 
beauty  and  homeliness. 

Among  the  sad  and  sorrowful  of  this  wretched 
quarter,  the  figure  of  Sister  Agatha  moves  like 
an  angel — "  one  of  the  big  married  ones  " — and 
she  stands  in  the  lives  of  hundreds  of  people 
for  law  and  order,  for  respectability  and  decency, 
for  kindness  and  family  love,  for  aspiration  and 
religion.  Like  Sister  Mildred,  she  is  a  reproach 
to  the  sinful.     Compassionate  enough  to  those 


300  SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY 

who   confess   their   sinfulness   and   cry   to    God 
for  His  mercy  and  forgiveness — then  she  is  like 
a  mother  clasping  her  son  to  her  love,  like  a 
hen  gathering  its   chickens  under  her  wings — 
she  is  stern,  implacable,  and  indignant  with  those 
whose  lives  are  bad.     She  is  not  of  that  tem- 
perament   which   loses   sight   of    the    power   of 
conscience  in  its  contemplation  of  environment 
and  its  consideration  of  heredity.     She  believes 
that  every  man  and  woman  knows  good  from 
evil.     She  holds  that  there  is  no  excuse  for  sin. 
She  declares  that  there  is  a  conscience  in  every 
soul,  and  that  to  the  voice  of  conscience  every 
soul  is  answerable.     Only  in  such  a  spirit  can 
a  good  woman  really  accomplish  a  great  work, 
whatever  the  strata  of  human  society  in  which 
she  stands  for  the  religious  life.     Sentimentalism, 
unction,    and  the   excusing   spirit   of   emotional 
tolerance  have  worked  and  are  still  working  im- 
mense harm.     The  line  between  good  and  evil  is 
clear  marked.     The  right  and  the  wrong  of  life 
are  visible  to  the  dimmest  eyes.     The  most  de- 
graded can  recognise  the  difference  between  God 
and  the  Devil. 

"  Man,"  says  Ernest  Hello,  "  is  led  into  error 
with  appalling  facility.  He  receives  it  through 
all  the  senses  by  means  of  which  he  communi- 
cates with  the  outer  world.  He  absorbs  it  at 
every  pore;  heart,  mind,  and  body,  each  and 
all  are  cruelly  and  frightfully  corruptible."     This 


SISTER  AGATHA'S  WAY  301 

is  true,  but  the  road  to  evil  is  easier  when  it 
is  paved  with  excuses,  and  the  way  is  clear  to  all 
mankind  unless  goodness  is  there  to  obstruct  the 
path.  "  The  execration  of  evil,"  says  the  same 
author,  "  is  the  rarest  of  virtues  and  the  most  for- 
gotten of  glories." 

Would  it  not  be  helpful  to  humanity  and  more 
harmonious  with  the  spirit  of  Faith,  if  all  the 
Churches  broke  down  their  little  sectional  fences 
and  enclosures,  and  united  in  one  great  confident 
army  of  God  to  execrate  evil,  to  denounce  sin,  and 
to  affirm  that  only  by  the  power  of  Christ  can  a 
soul  attain  to  everlasting  life?  This  day  will 
come  for  the  Churches  of  the  Reformation, 'but 
not  yet.  In  the  meantime,  I  would  beg  the  chil- 
dren of  the  Establishment  who  read  this  book, 
when  they  next  hear  such  expressions  as  "  the  dis- 
sidence  of  dissent,"  and  "  the  Nonconformist 
Conscience,"  to  call  to  their  minds  the  sword  of 
Sister  Agatha  and  the  bunch  of  flowers  of  Sister 
Mildred. 


NOTES 

NOTE  A.    (Page  24.)' 

The  school  of  thought  which  shrinks  from  the  idea  of 
happiness  in  religion  and  regards  the  idea  of  joy  even  in 
heaven  with  a  shocked  and  mournful  disapproval,  has 
recently  found  a  writer  to  express  its  opinions  in  the 
columns  of  a  Church  newspaper.  He  says :  "  Our  Lord 
did  not  say,  'Blessed  are  the  happy';  He  said,  'Blessed 
are  they  that  mourn.'  "  To  which  I  reply :  Our  Lord  did 
not  say,  "Blessed  are  the  happy,"  because  it  would  have 
been  tautological  to  do  so ;  and  He  did  not  say,  "  Blessed 
are  they  that  mourn,"  because  it  would  have  been  ob- 
viously untrue.  He  said,  "Blessed  are  they  that  mourn: 
for  they  shall  be  comforted."  The  blessing  does  not  lie 
in  the  mourning,  but  in  the  immense  change  which  takes 
place  in  the  soul  when  comfort  has  changed  the  whole 
attitude  and  light  has  swept  away  the  darkness. 

"  I  suspect  a  religion,"  he  goes  on  to  say,  "  that  makes  a 
great  deal  of  happiness.  It  seems  to  me  rather  pagan 
than  Christian."  Humanity,  on  the  other  hand,  has  come 
to  suspect  a  religion  that  makes  a  great  deal  of  unhap- 
piness.  Such  a  state  of  mind  seems  to  the  intelligence  of 
the  world  neither  pagan  nor  Christian,  but  morbid  and 
unhealthy.  "  Let  those  who  thus  suffer,"  says  St.  Teresa, 
"understand  that  they  are  ill."  And  for  my  part  I  sus- 
pect the  honesty  of  the  affirmation.  I  do  not  believe  that 
the  writer  of  it  would  refuse  a  rich  estate,  or  that  he 
would  voluntarily  live  in  Houndsditch.  I  do  not  believe 
that  any  healthy  and  rational  man  ever  refused  a  hap- 
piness that  he  could  accept  with  honour  to  himself  and 

302 


NOTES  303 

without  hurt  to  other  people.  It  seems  to  be  the  opinion 
of  physicians  that  people  who  whip  themselves  and  wear 
hair-shirts  next  to  the  skin  do  so  because  such  practices 
make  them  happy ;  it  is  a  case  of  one  of  those  perversions, 
common  and  shocking  to  the  human  conscience,  which  are 
rather  matters  for  the  alienist  than  for  discussion  in 
society. 

That  sorrow  is  a  noble  discipline  no  one  in  his  senses 
will  deny.  But  it  would  be  a  man  surely  out  of  his  senses 
who  chastised  his  son  in  order  to  make  him  long  for  more 
chastisement,  and  who  stimulated  him  to  look  forward  to 
manhood  as  an  opportunity  for  receiving  and  enduring 
even  more  chastisement  than  he  could  rightly  expect  to 
enjoy  in  his  tender  youth.  All  the  miseries  and  afflictions 
of  this  life — most  of  which  come  from  wrong-living  or 
foolish  laws — can  only  be  regarded  as  helpful  so  far  as 
they  strengthen  the  soul  to  gird  up  its  loins  and  seek  the 
blessing  of  happiness.  It  would  be  a  mad  politician  who 
set  about  the  destruction  of  all  beneficent  legislation,  on 
the  dogma  that  the  ideal  of  happiness  is  "rather  pagan 
than  Christian." 

"  What  strange  rage  possesses  some  people,"  says  Vol- 
taire, "  to  insist  on  our  all  being  miserable !  They  are  like 
a  quack  who  would  fain  have  us  believe  we  are  ill,  in  order 
to  sell  us  his  pills.  Keep  thy  drugs,  my  friend,  and  leave 
me  my  health." 

"It  is  pathetic  and  ludicrous  sometimes,"  says  Pro- 
fessor Granger,  "to  find  the  results  of  unwholesome 
surroundings,  want  of  cleanliness,  and  bad  cooking,  treated 
as  part  of  the  necessary  discipline  of  life,  and  the  victims 
of  their  own  and  other's  incompetency  treated  as  though, 
like  Job,  their  misfortunes  were  a  special  token  of  the 
divine  interest." 

Finally,  for  my  purpose,  the  writer  says :  "  It  is  true  the 
word  '  happy '  is  used  in  some  places  in  the  English 
Bible,  but  is  not  that  a  mistake?"    Well,  I  hope  not! 

Perhaps  he  will  see  how  far  his  morbidity  carries  him,  if 
he  take  his  English  Bible  or  his  Greek  Testament,  and 
wherever  he  finds  such  words  as  stand  in  the  common 


304  NOTES 

acceptation  of  men  as  synonymous  with  happiness,  substi- 
tute for  them  any  terms  he  finds  to  his  taste  which  stand 
in  the  common  acceptation  of  men  for  the  contrary  to 
happiness.  I  think  he  will  soon  find  himself  over  the 
ankles  in  blasphemy  and  up  to  the  eyes  in  foolishness. 

"  Our  business  henceforth  is  not  with  death,  but  with 
life."  "Joy  is  the  great  lifter  of  men,  the  great  unf older." 
"For  life  to  be  fruitful,  life  must  be  felt  as  a  blessing." 

It  is  just  such  a  faith  as  that  to  which  this  writer  clings 
which  has  poured  Christianity  out  of  France  and  is  fast 
emptying  it  from  Italy  and  even  Spain.  "  Communion 
with  such  a  God,"  said  George  Sand,  "  is  impossible  to  me, 
I  confess  it.  He  is  wiped  out  from  my  memory;  there  is 
no  corner  where  I  can  find  Him  any  more.  Nor  do  I  find 
such  a  God  out  of  doors  either;  he  is  not  in  the  fields  and 
waters,  he  is  not  in  the  starry  sky.  .  .  .  It  is  an  addition 
to  our  stock  of  light,  this  detachment  from  the  idolatrous 
conception  of  religion.  It  is  no  loss  of  the  religious 
sense,  as  the  persisters  in  idolatry  maintain.  It  is  quite 
the  contrary,  it  is  a  restitution  of  allegiance  to  the  true 
Divinity.  It  is  a  step  made  in  the  direction  of  this  Divinity, 
it  is  an  abjuration  of  the  dogmas  which  did  Him  dis- 
honour." George  Sand  was  brought  up  in  a  convent,  in 
the  odour  of  abasement,  and  under  the  frown  of  dis- 
pleasure. 

It  should  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  explain  that  by 
"happiness"  I  mean  everything  that  the  soul  of  man  can 
glimpse,  with  the  utmost  reach  of  its  aspiration,  on  receiv- 
ing into  itself  the  meaning  of  such  divine  words  as:  "I 
am  come  that  they  might  have  Life,  and  that  they  might 
have  it  more  abundantly."  I  cannot  be  supposed  to  mean 
the  transitory  happiness  of  a  mere  hedonism.  I  am  con- 
scious of  a  deeper  happiness  in  the  saddest  music  of 
Chopin  than  anything  the  sensualist  can  possibly  derive 
from  the  jigs  and  catches  of  the  music-hall.  I  am  con- 
scious of  a  profounder  and  more  glorious  happiness  in 
health  and  exercise  than  anything  the  sot  can  gain  from 
the  wildest  intoxication.  By  watching  over  and  waiting 
upon  beautiful  flowers  I  enjoy  a  sense  of  happiness  which 


NOTES  305 

cannot  be  brought  without  violence  into  comparison  with 
the  pleasure  a  public  woman  gets  from  the  glamour  and 
racket  of  a  fashionable  supper-room.  "  Our  sweetest 
songs  are  those  which  tell  of  saddest  thought,"  is  a  true 
saying,  if  we  lay  as  much  emphasis  on  the  sweetness  as 
upon  the  sadness.  A  lugubrious  hymn  turns  the  stomach 
of  healthy  people.  "  Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the 
Old  Testament,  Adversity  of  the  New,"  is  only  true  when 
we  understand  that  Adversity  is  not  a  blessing  unless  it 
leads  away  from  a  transient  and  soul-killing  prosperity 
to  the  eternal  happiness  and  everlasting  felicity  of  faith 
in  God.  The  final  Beatitude  makes  plain  the  mind  of 
Christ.  "  Blessed  are  ye,  when  men  shall  revile  you,  .  .  . 
rejoice  and  be  exceeding  glad."  Melancholy  people  dwell 
on  the  means;  it  is  surely  wiser  to  get  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible to  the  goal. 

When  one  reflects  upon  the  instruction  that  it  is  neces- 
sary to  become  as  little  children  before  we  can  enter 
the  Kingdom,  it  must  be  clear  to  us  that  we  are  yet 
outside  the  gates  of  love  when  our  hearts  are  full  of 
apprehensions,  abasement,  and  self-distrust.  Such  a  con- 
dition means  egoism,  and  egoism  of  a  very  dangerous 
order :  it  is  the  contradiction  of  Christianity,  which  is 
selflessness.  The  happy  Christian  is  not  like  the  Pharisee 
in  the  parable,  full  of  self-righteousness,  and  poised  in 
self-assurance;  he  is  secure  because  the  Fatherhood  of 
God  is  a  reality  to  him,  and  happy  because  he  has  found 
everything  he  can  desire,  not  in  himself,  but  in  Christ. 
In  a  fine  phrase  used,  I  think,  by  Bishop  Gore,  such  a  man 
does  not  so  much  tarry  to  exorcise  the  devil  as  hasten 
to  exercise  the  angel. 

Christianity  is  not  arrayed  against  the  world  for  being 
happy,  but  is  in  the  world  to  declare  and  to  give  the  only 
happiness  which  is  lasting  and  divine. 


306  NOTES 


NOTE  B.    (Page  26.) 

One  of  my  correspondents,  who  has  had  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  East,  writes  as  follows:  "The  real 
contrast  between  Christianity  and  other  religions  is  seen 
in  the  fact  that  flagrant  sins  condemned  in  the  one  are 
practised  as  part  of  the  religion  itself  in  the  others,  as 
shown  by  Miss  Amy  Wilson  Carmichael  in  Things  as 
they  are  in  Southern  India.  .  .  .  Contact  with  things  as 
they  are  dispels  many  illusions." 

"Asian  religions,"  he  says,  "make  no  effort  to  con- 
vert evil  men  to  righteousness.  Ceremony  counts  for 
more  than  character  in  every  false  religion.  .  .  .For 
a  Hindu  to  eat  with  one  of  another  caste,  or  of  no  caste, 
is  a  greater  sin  than  murder  or  adultery.  Is  it  not  also 
a  '  mortal  sin '  for  a  Roman  Catholic  to  eat  meat  on 
Friday  unless  he  pays  for  a  dispensation?  Hindus  and 
others  may  become  Mohammedans  without  change  of  char- 
acter or  the  abandonment  of  any  evil  practices  to  which 
they  are  known  to  be  addicted." 

A  well-known  Mahatma,  highly  commended  for  holiness 
by  Professor  Max  Miiller,  and  said  to  be  one  of  the 
greatest  persons  in  India,  swaying  millions  of  men,  told  me 
on  one  occasion  that  I  did  wrong  to  be  interested  in  poor 
people  and  that  I  should  leave  them  alone  in  their  miseries 
and  destitutions.  "  They  are  suffering,"  he  said,  "  for  sins 
in  their  past  lives."  Some  few  months  afterwards  he 
was  arrested,  charged  with  a  disgusting  offence,  and  sent 
to  prison. 

At  the  Edinburgh  Missionary  Conference,  Professor 
James  Denney,  of  Glasgow,  said :  "  People  had  got  a  smat- 
tering of  comparative  religions  which  made  them  indiffer- 
ent, instead  of  realising  from  a  far  deeper  study  that  the 
difference  between  the  Christian  and  the  non-Christian  atti- 
tude to  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  was  not  a  difference  of 
more  or  less,  better  or  worse,  but  a  difference  of  life  and 
death." 


NOTES  307 

A  doctor  in  India  says  that  "the  dedication  of  girls  to 
certain  gods  remains  a  perpetual  source  of  recruitment  to 
the  ranks  of  immorality  and  gives  the  latter  a  religious 
sanction."  Young  girls  in  India  are  married  to  Hindu 
gods :  they  are  trained  to  dance  and  sing  evil  songs  in 
preparation  for  a  life  of  shame  in  Hindu  temples.  "  It 
is  well  known  in  India,"  says  my  correspondent,  "  that  in 
the  Penal  Code  obscene  representations  in  connection  with 
religion  are  exempted  from  the  penalties  of  the  law." 
Can  there  be  greater  blasphemy  or  profounder  ignorance 
than  to  liken  such  a  devil's  religion  to  the  revelation  of 
Christ? 

NOTE  C.     (Page  64.) 

Some  idea  of  the  effect  of  Society's  vulgarity  on  the 
poor  and  miserable  may  be  gathered  from  the  following 
description  of  an  Anarchist  meeting  given  by  Miss  Olive 
Christian  Malvery  in  her  book  called  Thirteen  Nights 
(Hodder  and  Stoughton,  1909)  : — 

"  Three  years  ago  I  was  one  night  the  guest  of  a  Russian 
lady  and  gentleman  in  London.  They  took  me  as  a 
'  camarade '  to  a  meeting  of  '  Red-caps,'  held  at  eleven 
o'clock  at  night.  What  a  company  it  was !  Men  and 
women  filled  with  grim  purpose — '  the  destruction  of 
tyranny/  they  called  it.  I  sat  cold  with  fear,  yet  I  could 
not  steel  my  heart  against  those  outcasts.  The  foreigners 
impressed  me  most  favourably;  they  had  reasons  for  their 
hate.  The  English  Anarchists  were  merely  ruffians  or 
tub-thumpers — creatures  who  would  rather  talk  than 
work. 

"Here  I  heard  a  strange  gospel  preached.  A  man — he 
was  an  Italian,  I  think — stood  up;  he  was  dressed  all  in 
black,  but  in  his  coat  lapel  was  tied  a  tiny  crimson  knot. 
He  held  in  his  hand  a  sheaf  of  cuttings  from  the  daily 
papers,  and  as  he  read  them  out  slowly  I  judged  that 
most  of  them  must  have  been  extracts  from  the  '  Court 
and     Society '     or     '  Fashionable     Intelligence '     columns. 


308  NOTES 

There  were  notices  of  balls  and  theatricals  and  dinner- 
parties, with  descriptions  of  the  costly  decorations  and 
the  ladies'  expensive  dresses  and  beautiful  jewels.  After 
these  items  came  political  news  and  very  cleverly  selected 
futilities  that  had  been  occupying  Parliament.  The  strange 
company  was  stung  to  ironic  laughter. 

"When  the  man  had  finished  reading  his  cuttings  a 
young  woman  got  up.  She  also  was  dressed  in  black, 
and  wore  on  her  breast  a  little  crimson  knot.  She  was  a 
Jewess — evidently  well  educated.  She  had  a  packet  of 
newspaper  cuttings  also,  and  read  them  slowly  and  sol- 
emnly in  a  fine  full  voice. 

"This  time  the  cuttings  were  from  police  news  and  odd 
news  paragraphs.  As  the  woman  read  one  saw  Hogarth- 
like pictures  of  realistic  ugliness.  Now  it  was  a  woman 
suicide,  now  a  girl  brought  up  for  theft,  she  being  a  slave 
in  some  milliner's  shop  at  5s.  a  week.  Then  there  was  the 
case  of  a  workman  taken  up  for  breaking  windows.  It  was 
discovered  that  he  had  touched  no  food  for  two  days,  and 
had  a  starving  wife  and  three  little  children.  Again,  there 
was  the  sentence  on  a  poacher  lad  of  16,  sent  to  jail  for 
many  months  for  snaring  rabbits  on  a  gentleman's  estate. 
The  cases  were  selected  with  marvellous  cleverness  for 
their  purpose. 

"  When  the  woman  had  done  an  old  man  got  up,  he 
had  fierce  eyes  and  a  long  white  beard.  He  was  very  tall 
and  spoke  in  a  commanding  voice.  His  text  was  from 
the  lessons  that  had  been  read — he  contrasted  the  items  of 
news  and  held  up  together  the  '  acts  of  justice '  and  the 
sentences.  He  showed  side  by  side  the  bedizened  women 
at  the  rich  table  and  the  cold  little  starvelings  in  the 
sweat-shop.  The  listeners  wept — I  with  them.  It  was  one 
of  the  most  dramatic  and  thrilling  sermons  I  have  ever 
heard.  The  grim  order  and  cruel  method  of  the  meeting 
made  me  shiver.  After  the  texts  had  been  expounded 
the  foolish  gabble  of  Parliament  was  held  up  to  scorn. 
'  See  what  the  Government  is  occupied  with,'  the  man 
cried  out,  '  while  we  die ! ' 

"  There  were  groans  from  the  audience.    Every  one  was 


NOTES  309 

in  black,  and  a  sinister  gloom  seemed  to  pervade  the 
place. 

"  When  the  man  finished  speaking  the  whole  company- 
stood  up,  and  a  long  silence  ensued.  Then  a  woman  held 
up  a  scarlet  handkerchief.  Instantly  every  member  of  the 
company  did  the  same ;  there  was  a  waving  sea  of  red 
flags,  and  the  woman  spoke  somewhat  like  this : — 

" '  Comrades,  this  to  our  unity  and  steadfastness !  In 
life  and  to^death  we  pledge  ourselves  to  sacrifice  ourselves 
for  the  overthrow  of  tyranny  and  the  upraising  of  justice. 
Through  blood  to  freedom.' 

" '  Amen ! '  came  the  solemn  chorus  from  the  standing 
people." 

NOTE  D.    (Page  120.) 

In  another  narrative  I  have  indicated  the  difference 
which  separates  drunkenness  from  dipsomania.  Briefly,  in 
the  one  case  the  will  consents,  the  vice  is  sought,  repent- 
ance, if  it  manifests  at  all,  is  an  after-effect;  in  the  case 
of  dipsomania  there  is  a  struggle  of  the  will  against  the 
inclination,  often  of  a  most  terrible  nature,  and  then  the 
will  is  swept  aside  and  the  madness  has  full  sway. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  that  even  after  conversion 
a  soul  is  distracted  and  torn  by  temptation.  One  may  be 
allowed  to  think  that  in  these  sufferings  is  manifested  the 
clear  will  of  God  on  a  matter  almost  wholly  neglected  by 
religious  instruction — the  pre-natal  responsibility  of  parents 
to  their  posterity.  The  sins  of  the  fathers  are  indeed 
visited  upon  the  third  and  fourth  generation,  and  a  recog- 
nition of  this  law  ought  to  be  man's  greatest  security 
against  intemperance  and  sin.  Who  can  bear  to  think  of 
bequeathing  to  his  children  a  legacy  of  syphilitic  blood 
and  alcoholic  tissues? 

The  mercy  of  God  is  exercised,  so  far  as  we  can  judge, 
by  a  provision  of  strength  to  the  converted  soul  for  re- 
sisting this  recurring  temptation.  The  strength  increases, 
and   the   temptation    diminishes,    in    equal    ratio.     In   this 


310  NOTES 

process  the  great  and  salutary  warning  of  "visited  sins" 
is  not  abrogated,  and  neither  is  the  promise  of  answered 
prayer  broken.  It  would  no  doubt  seem  to  us  a  greater 
miracle  if  the  sufferer  were  instantaneously  delivered 
from  the  curse  at  the  moment  of  conversion ;  but  we  may 
question  if  such  an  interposition  of  Divine  power  would 
be  an  act  of  mercy  towards  the  human  race.  The  penalty 
of  the  broken  law  is  the  elementary  education  of  the  soul, 
and  mankind  is  very  far  at  present  from  having  learned 
that  lesson. 

It  is  neither  a  "  dearest  Mama "  nor  a  weak  and  in- 
dulgent Father  that  the  best  of  humanity  seek  in  heaven, 
but  a  Power  whose  Fatherhood  is  manifested  by  a  love 
that  braces  only  the  highest  faculties  and  a  mercy  that 
strengthens  to  resist  sin.  We  do  not  desire  to  be  saved 
from  ourselves,  nor  to  sneak  into  a  heaven  sticky  with 
sugar;  but  strengthened  and  inspired  to  mount  upwards  to 
the  heights  of  being. 


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